


the next will never come

by loveleee



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M, Family, Gen, very slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-22
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-10 12:11:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 35
Words: 98,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/466122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveleee/pseuds/loveleee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It means I'm done. It means I'm free. It means I'll live."</p><p>Katniss makes it through her last Reaping. AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. one

__

_(I keep living this day like the next will never come)_

 

Astrid Mullen. 

Astrid Mullen - fifteen years old with long, wavy brown hair and brown eyes and a sprinkling of freckles across her round cheeks - is District 12's female tribute for the 76th Hunger Games, which means that I am not. I never will be.

It means I'm done. It means I'm free. It means I'll live.

\---

I find Prim as soon as we're permitted to leave the square, wrapping her tightly in my arms. She's fourteen now, too old to hold my hand as we walk to school in the morning or greet me with a hug in the lunchroom. But today is Reaping Day, my very last, and so she embraces me fiercely, her thin arms like a vise around my middle.

"You made it, Katniss," she chokes into my shoulder. As I pull away, I realize she's shaking.

"Do you know her?" I whisper, and Prim's sweet face crumples. She nods.

"We've been partners all year in science class."

"You can still say goodbye," I tell her gently, scanning the small crowd outside the Justice Building, where the tributes are taken each year so their friends and family can bid them farewell. I've never done it, myself; I don't have many friends.

Prim hesitates, and I hug her quickly again. "I'm sure she'd like to see you. I'll wait for you right here." My heart clenches as I watch her run towards the gathering of Peacekeepers and mourning families. My eligibility for the Games has come and gone, but Prim's got four more years ahead of her.

Footsteps crunch on the gravel behind me, and I turn. It's my mother. Her hand reaches out to smooth back my hair as she reaches my side. "Congratulations, honey," she says quietly, her eyes wrinkling at the corners with the hint of a smile. She follows my gaze towards the Justice Building, where Prim has just reached the line. "Oh, no," she murmurs. "Was Prim friends with the girl?" 

"Yeah," I say, suddenly distracted by the group of rowdy boys behind my mother's shoulder. They're jumping around, punching one another on the arm and shouting, and one even has his friend in a headlock. They're boys from my year, and while normally I'd roll my eyes at their antics, today they have something  _real_  to celebrate. A little smile creeps its way onto my face before I can stop it, and then one of them - the one in the headlock - makes eye contact. I look away, turning back towards the Justice Building abruptly.

Too late. "Hi Katniss," Peeta Mellark says breathlessly, walking towards us with one hand in the pocket of his navy blue slacks. "Hi, Mrs. Everdeen."

"Hello, Peeta," she answers. I didn't even know my mother knew who Peeta was - I've definitely never mentioned his name at home. 

"Hi," I say, craning my neck back around to see if Prim's on her way back yet. She's next in line. 

"So, congratulations," he says, gesturing towards me with his free hand. It's strange, how we all resort to the same word when this happens:  _congratulations_ , like it's some kind of victory and not sheer dumb luck that Effie Trinket never plucked our names from her blown glass bowls. "You must be really relieved it's all over now."

"My sister's only fourteen," I say, and feel a little bad when his face turns pink in response. 

Peeta scratches at the back of his head awkwardly. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean - of course it's not  _over_ , I just meant, since you're aged out now, and everything." He pauses. "Well, anyway, I wanted to let you know that Delly Cartwright is having a picnic sort of thing at her house tomorrow, for all the kids in our year. It's called a potluck, and everybody brings a dish to share - I'm bringing sugar cookies, probably."

I try not to roll my eyes. In the Seam, a potluck is pretty much the only kind of party there is - no one can afford to feed a room full of guests on their own. "I know what a potluck is."

"Oh." Peeta's face has reached a full-on blush now, and his hand fidgets in his pocket. "Sorry, I didn't know what one was until Delly told me. But, I just wanted to let you know you should come. It'll be fun."

"It sounds like fun," my mother chimes in. I stare at her. She knows I'm not going to this party. 

"I actually think I have plans tomorrow night," I say, shrugging apologetically. "But thank you for inviting me."

"Oh. Okay." Peeta shoves his other hand into his pocket, looking sheepish. "Well, if you change your mind, you're welcome to come." He pauses for a moment, kicking halfheartedly at a stone near his foot. "Oh, and...I really like your dress. You look nice...see you around, Katniss." 

He's already halfway back to his friends before I can cross my arms over my chest in response. I've been wearing this dress to the Reaping for the past three years, and each year it's grown tighter around my hips and my chest. If there's one thing I don't need, it's Peeta Mellark developing an appreciation for my...developments.

"That was nice of him," my mother says mildly. "Do you have plans with Gale tomorrow?"

"Yes," I lie. "He realized there were a few snares he forgot to check last week in the woods, and he wants to go check them again before the meat goes bad." In fact, Gale and I already checked all of his snares early this morning, but she wouldn't know because she was still asleep when I slipped quietly back into bed.

"You two have been spending a lot of time together lately." 

I frown. Is that true? If we have, it's because it's late spring and game is plentiful. I even brought down a deer last week, and ended up having to leave a few rabbits behind just so we could carry it all. It was almost physically painful for me to waste so much perfectly good meat. "I guess. Hunting's been good lately."

We stand in silence and watch as Prim finally makes her way back to us, shoulders slumped. Our mother hugs her gently, and wipes a tear off her cheek with her thumb. I'm glad that years later, she's capable of this again - of  _being_ our mother - but a part of me just thinks  _too little, too late._

I take Prim's cold, trembling fingers in my own and squeeze them when she doesn't pull away. "Let's go home."

\---

Gale must have seen me coming through the window, because when he opens the door his arms are around me before I even get a glimpse of his face.

"You're done, Catnip," he says into my hair, and for the first time since the Reaping today I feel a smile crack along my face. I  _am_ done. 

"Yup." I disentangle myself and wave at his brother Vick, who's chopping vegetables in the kitchen. Most families have a nice meal on Reaping Day to celebrate another year of disaster averted - nicer than usual, anyway. The Hawthornes have been a lot better off since Gale started working in the mines two years ago, bringing in a much steadier income than his mother makes washing laundry for folks in town, but fresh zucchini and tomatoes are about as fancy as they'll get tonight.

Or maybe not. "You want to run by the bakery with me?" Gale asks, leaning against the kitchen counter, his long legs crossed at the ankle before him. "We're getting a loaf of bread tonight. Big spenders," he says with a grin.

I think of Peeta Mellark, who's almost definitely working the counter at his family's bakery right now - it's one of the busiest days of the year. "No thanks," I say, playing with the end of my braid. "I should get home soon, I just wanted to come say hi."

"You sure? I could walk you home after," he offers. Vick snorts, and Gale punches him in the arm. I sigh internally. I know why Gale wants to walk me home, and I don't want to deal with it right now.

"That's okay. Prim's upset...she knew the girl. Astrid," I add. It's almost too easy to slip into pronouns and generalities once the tributes have been chosen. In the Capitol they're treated like celebrities, their names and faces plastered on every surface, but here we just want a head start on forgetting. We already know they're not coming back.

"Me too." The voice of Gale's youngest brother, Rory, carries from the room next to us, where I hadn't seen him lying on the lumpy sofa with a book. "She was really nice."  _Is nice_ , I want to correct him, but he's right - it's only a matter of days until the past tense will settle like a thick fog over all of our conversations about the tributes.

We're all quiet for a long moment, and somehow I know we're all thinking about the same thing: the children  _we_ knew who were reaped, who were really nice, who sat behind us in math class or played kickball after school, who died shivering and shaking and starving on a television screen while thousands of people watched. For me it was Lann Harwood, a blond boy from town who walked me to the school nurse one day when we were ten and I sprained my ankle during recess. He made it five days in the arena before a Career tracked him down and slit his throat in the moonlight. He was thirteen. I remember the announcers complaining that it was too dark to properly see the whole "battle," and for the rest of those Games the sun never fully set at night again.

"I'll see you later," I tell Gale, and leave before he can pull me into another hug. 

\---

Most years it takes just a few days for District 12 to settle back into the low-grade hum of business as usual, and this one is no exception. The morning after the opening ceremonies I head to the town square and find it like any other Thursday in late spring: a few children chasing each other down the street, a few Merchants shopping for weekend groceries, and a few people like me, approaching the job board outside the Justice Building in the hopes that something new's been posted since the last time we looked.

I can tell from fifty feet away that the board is exactly the way I left it just a few days ago: full of jobs no one will hire me to do. I'm not strong enough to lay bricks. I'm not smart enough to tutor schoolchildren. I'm not friendly enough to sell things in a shop.

If hunting were legal, I'd be all set: I could set up a stand at the Hob and peddle cuts of meat every morning. But it's not legal; it's punishable by death, so instead I trade my haul at back doors and back alleys, underpaid for the risk I'm taking because my customers know I'm too desperate to refuse.

Gale says there's always a place for me in the mines, but I can't. I can't descend into the earth each day, deep into the belly of the hole that devoured my father when I was only eleven. I can't imagine anything worse. I had told him that, and he'd gone cold.

"That's what I thought, too, until Posy got old enough to ask me why her stomach made funny noises when she got hungry." That was a month ago, and we haven't talked about it since.

I walk up to the board anyway and scan the sheets of paper carefully. Maybe there's something I missed last week, or something new that slipped behind an old one in the breeze. Maybe there's -

"Hey Katniss." Maybe there's Peeta Mellark, standing behind me, watching me run my fingers over the job postings like a crazy person.

"Hey." 

Peeta moves to my side, and I can feel that his eyes are on me, not the board. "Are you looking for a job?"

"I  _am_  looking at the job board," I say, glancing at him. 

"Well, we're hiring at the bakery." I hadn't noticed, but he's got a bright yellow sheet of paper in his hand. "You should apply." 

I shake my head. "I don't know how to bake." Not to mention, a girl from the Seam working in a Merchant shop - it's not unheard of, but it's unusual. 

"That's okay, it's not a baking job. We need someone to run the register up front." 

I frown. "Isn't that your job?"

"It was," he nods. "My brother's getting married, though, so my dad needs another set of hands in the kitchen." Peeta grins a little and holds up his hands, wiggling his fingers slightly. "And it just so happens I have very talented hands."

I feel a flush rising in my cheeks, so I grab his job ad and hold it in front of my face, skimming over the details. The pay isn't great, but it's not bad. There's only one bakery in District 12, so I won't scare away too many customers - they'll have nowhere else to go. Most importantly, it's above ground. 

"How would I apply?" I ask, handing the paper back to him. 

He shrugs. "You can come talk to my dad right now if you want."

I hesitate, looking back at the board. It's been weeks and I'm still unemployed. I'm too old for tesserae, and I'd rather die than let Prim add extra slips into the Reaping bowl.

"Alright," I say. It's not until we're halfway there that I notice Peeta never tacked up the yellow job flyer - it's crumpled in his fist.


	2. two

The bakery is warm inside, and an electric fan buzzes from one corner of the room. One of Peeta's brothers - the one who's Gale's age - sits slumped over in a chair behind the counter, twirling a small metal whisk between his fingers. He sits up quickly when we open the door, but settles back in his seat when he sees it's just Peeta.  
  
"That was fast," he remarks, eyeing me with mild interest.  
  
"Is Dad around?" Peeta asks, drumming his fingers on the countertop. "This is Katniss, she wants the job."  
  
"I know Katniss," his brother replies, standing up. He does? "You hang around with Gale Hawthorne, right?"  
  
"Yeah," I say slowly.  
  
"Right. And you sell Dad those squirrels every week. Duh, Peeta." He pushes open the swinging door behind him and leans into what I can only assume is the kitchen. "Dad! Peeta's got someone here for the job."  
  
The door swings back towards us soon after, and Mr. Mellark appears, wiping his hands on his dark blue apron. "Katniss." He greets me with a nod.   
  
"Hi," I say, suddenly nervous. I've interacted with Peeta's dad far more than anyone else in the family, but our conversations have never gone beyond our trades.   
  
"You're interested in working the register?" His eyes flick towards Peeta, who's leaning against the counter and studying a loaf of dark brown bread with great interest.  
  
"Yes. I would really like to work the register," I say, stilted. Is this an interview? I've never been close enough to having one to really think about it. "I...I'm a hard worker. And I'm always on time," I add lamely.   
  
"Are you good at math?"  
  
"I'm okay," I say honestly. "Algebra's kind of tough."  
  
"Well, you won't need any of that here," he says, smiling gently. "Strictly the basics." Mr. Mellark gives me a long look, and then shakes his head. "I hate to say this, Katniss, but I just don't think I can do it. If you're working here, where will I get my weekly helping of squirrel meat?"  
  
I know what he's really saying:  _You're not what we're looking for, but I'm too nice to say it._  "Oh, okay," I say quietly, turning to leave. "Thanks anyway."  
  
I'm halfway to the door when Peeta steps in front of me, brushing my forearm with his fingertips. I flinch away. "No, no - he's just kidding," he says, shaking his head. "He thinks he's funny." Peeta looks pointedly at his father.  
  
Mr. Mellark makes his way around the counter, chuckling. "And I'm the only one who thinks so, right, Peeta?" He smiles and extends his hand. "I'm sorry, Katniss, I was just joking with you. We'd be happy to have you. When can you start?"  
  
I'm a little stunned, but I force my hand to grasp his in a handshake. "Um - now? Anytime."  
  
"How does Sunday morning sound? We open at six, so if you get here at five-thirty Peeta can show you the ropes."  
  
"Okay. Yes." I nod, bewildered. Peeta is standing next to me, hands shoved deep in his pockets, and his brother is leaning over the counter fiddling with a whisk again, and how is this happening so quickly? This could be a terrible mistake.  _Prim, Prim, Prim,_  I repeat like a mantra in my mind.  _I'm doing this for Prim._  
  
"Wonderful. We'll see you bright and early on Sunday. Here, have a cookie.” Mr. Mellark hands me a sugar cookie with yellow frosting, then ambles back in the kitchen before I can blink, the door swinging after him gently.   
  
I want to leave, but my feet feel glued to the floor. Peeta and his brother -  _what is his name?_ I wonder for one brief, panicky moment - are watching me like they have no idea what I'll do next. I'm not sure even _I_ know what I'll do next.  
  
Finally Peeta clears his throat. "I'm really sorry, Katniss, that was weird. My dad just has a weird sense of humor." He smiles weakly. "But we could really use your help. I hope he didn't scare you away."  
  
"No, it's fine," I say quickly, "but I have to get home." I'm out the door before they can say another word.  
  
\------  
  
Prim is at the kitchen table when I arrive home, picking listlessly at piece of toast made from tesserae grain. I can't blame her; the grain makes bread that's dense, tough, and completely unappealing on a warm morning late in the spring.   
  
"Any luck?"   
  
I hesitate for just a moment - if I tell Prim about the bakery, I really will have to go back there tomorrow morning. But the burnt toast before her on the table reminds me why I'm doing this. I place the yellow sugar cookie in front of her. "Actually, yes. I have a job at the bakery starting Sunday."  
  
Her face lights up for the first time in days - she's been strangely withdrawn ever since the day of the Reaping, I think because it's the first time someone she really knew was carted off to the Capitol. By this time next year she'll be old hat at saying goodbye to familiar faces. The thought makes my chest ache.  
  
"The bakery? Katniss!" Prim's eyes widen with excitement. "That's amazing! Like baking cookies and frosting cakes?"  
  
My lips curl up into a smile as I remember ten-year-old Prim dragging me past the bakery every week after school. It was the long way home, but she insisted because on Tuesdays, the big cake in the main window was replaced and she just  _had_ to see what was new that week. Usually it was just the same old rose-like flowers in a different pastel color, but Prim didn't care. She'd press her hands up against the glass and stare at the treats, leaving smudged little fingerprints in the space between the letters that spelled out  _BAKERY._  
  
"No, none of the fun stuff. I'll just be working the cash register."   
  
"Maybe you'll get to  _eat_  the fun stuff," she says, and I can't help but laugh. If Prim wasn't so clearly gifted at the work our mother does - healing - this would probably be her dream job.  
  
"Maybe." I pour myself a glass of water and sit across from Prim. "Where's Mother?"  
  
Prim's face falls immediately. "Mrs. Farren is having her baby."  
  
It's about time - it seems like Mrs. Farren's been waddling past our house, looking ready to burst, for months now. But something must be wrong, because normally Prim goes with Mother when she's delivering a baby, to fetch her things and learn how the process works so she can deliver babies herself one day. "Why aren't you there? Did something happen?"  
  
Prim sighs, her eyes on the cold toast on her plate. "No, I just...didn't feel very well."   
  
"Doesn't she need your help?"  
  
"She said it was okay. Don't want to get the baby sick." She shrugs. "I'm feeling better, though."  
  
The quiet, tired disinterest - this isn't like Prim. A cold fist grips my heart:  _this is like our mother._  
  
I lay a tentative hand on my sister's wrist. "Is everything okay, little duck?" She asked me to stop using that nickname over a year ago, but it still slips out sometimes when I’m concerned about her. "Are  _you_ okay?"  
  
Prim pulls her hand away sharply. "I'm fine. I'm tired, I'm going to take a nap." She pushes her chair back abruptly and leaves the room, shutting the bedroom door firmly behind her.  
  
I clear her toast off the table, a cold fear seeping into my chest. I can't go through this again. Not with Prim.  
  
\------  
  
Gale knocks on the door a few hours later just as I'm about to leave for a walk in the woods, so we head to the forest together, droplets of sweat trickling down our backs as the sun rises higher in the midday sky.  
  
We're silent until we slip beneath the fence - I never feel like I can speak freely until I'm out of the district's boundaries. "I'm worried about Prim," I confess. I tell him about her mood swings, her excessive napping, her lack of interest in the things she normally loves.  
  
"She's fourteen," Gale says dismissively. "Do you remember what you were like when you were fourteen?"  
  
"I wasn't  _sleeping_ all the time," I grumble, but he's right - I wasn't a ray of sunshine, either. I'm still not.   
  
"She's fine. Rory and Vick pull shit like this all the time. You just have to knock some sense into them and let them know they're being a jerk." Gale stops and stoops down to pluck a blue wildflower, and hands it to me. I twirl it through my fingers a few times before tucking the flower behind my ear, trying not to feel strange about it. "It's definitely easier when you've got a cute little sister who can cry on demand, though," he adds with a grin.  
  
I sigh. "Fine. Prim is growing up. I don't have to like it, though." I kick at a rock in my path. "You'll know how it feels when Posy gets this old."  
  
Gale laughs a little. "By that time I'll have my own kids to worry about." And that's when I go tense.  
  
Gale must be able to sense it, because his voice lowers and his steps grow slower. "Katniss..."  
  
I let the word hang in the air between us. I had hoped we wouldn't talk about this, but there's a part of me that must have known it was coming.  
  
He stops, half his body illuminated in a patch of sunlight shining through the trees. For an instant it looks like there are two Gales: the one that I see every day, who works in the mines and hunts in the woods. But the other half, the one in the sunshine, looks almost like he’s made of gold. Light, carefree. Like someone who lives, instead of just survives.  
  
"I came to your house this morning because I wanted to talk to you about something." He pauses. "I know that you have...misgivings...about the future. But I want you to reconsider." Gale takes a step towards me. "I want you to marry me."  
  
All I can hear is my heartbeat, pounding loudly in my chest. Why do I still react this way, every time we have this conversation? After two years I should be able to stand my ground, tell him that I've made my decision and it's final. But instead I feel weak and woozy, doubting myself even as I know I'll give him the same answer I always have.

 

"Hear me out, Catnip," he says, and the pleading in his voice is so disconcerting that I almost want to say yes, just so I don't have to hear it again. Gale shouldn't sound desperate. He should sound strong, confident. Annoyed, maybe.   
  
His fingers brush the back of my hand tentatively, and I let him grasp it loosely in his own. "You know how I feel about you." I can feel his eyes searching me but I refuse to look at him, keeping my gaze trained steadily on the ground. "I know you better than anyone. I  _get_ you." His hand wraps all the way around mine. "Who else would you marry?"  
  
"No one," I say quietly.  
  
"Prim won't stick around forever. You wouldn't last two weeks living with just your mom." I can't argue with that point. "I love you, Katniss," he says softly, and for just a moment I can imagine how this scene could play, if things were different: serene and romantic, sunlight dappling through the leaves above our heads, the quiet clicks and chirps of the forest folding around us like a warm blanket.  
  
"Doesn't that mean anything to you?"  
  
It does. It  _does,_ but I haven't figured out what it is yet - and I'm not sure it would be the answer Gale wants, anyway. "Yes, but -"

 

"Then let's get married." He clasps both my hands in his own, moving closer. "I want to make you happy. I  _know_ I can."  
  
The thing is - maybe he could. It's a thought that's been in the back of my mind ever since he first kissed me two years ago, but each time the idea surfaces again I push it away, focusing on what I need to do now: feed my family, protect Prim. Tomorrow won't matter if I fail at what I need to do today.  
  
But as Prim's grown over the last few years, I've had to face the inevitable: that I can't protect her forever, that one day she'll move on, and I'll have to move on, too. Practically speaking, a match between Gale and I just makes sense.

  
"I'm eighteen, Gale," I protest, shaking my head. "What is the rush? I can't get  _married_ now."  
  
"Plenty of people get married now," he counters. "I don't know if you've noticed, but we don't live forever around here."  
  
"Don’t say that," I say quietly, pulling my hands away. "I'm not rushing into something with you because you have a - a death wish."  
  
Gale laughs. "Believe me, I don't have a death wish.” He looks at me steadily. “I do have a wish. But it's not a death wish."  
  


I sigh. "You’re asking too much of me," I tell him. “You’ve got to…give me more time.” I start back towards the fence, picking my way over the rocks and branches before me.  
  
"I'll wait for you," he calls after me.  
  
 _I know_ , I think, and a shiver rolls down my spine.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Since there are so many people waiting in the AO3 queue right now, I set up a mailing list so you can get notifications when I post a new chapter here: http://eepurl.com/nWMF5
> 
> This is also being posted on FFN, so feel free to follow it there instead if you're so inclined. My goal is to make an update every Sunday. 
> 
> Also, just to clarify - this is basically AU from the beginning of THG books moving forward. All the backstory is the same as it was in the books leading up to when Prim & Peeta were reaped. There will be references to some of these canon events, but I don't think anyone needs to read the 50th rehashing of when Peeta gave Katniss bread, so I won't be going into much detail. Just know that it happened the same way.


	3. three

I've always thought I was an early riser, but after a long, sleepless night it's practically a miracle that I make it to the bakery by 5:30 on Sunday morning.

The door is still locked when I arrive, and there's no one in the front room to let me in. I knock, but no one appears, and so I wander around to the side of the building, where the pig pens are kept. Three pigs are already awake and nosing around the straw in their little enclosure, and I watch them blankly, my mind still foggy from sleep.

I'm about to give up and go home when the back door swings open. It's Peeta, a heavy trash bag slung over his shoulder. His frown melts away when he sees me standing awkwardly by the back of the pens, underneath an apple tree. "Hey!"

I wonder if this feels as strange to him as it does to me. Unknowingly, we've positioned ourselves exactly as we were one rainy night six years ago, the last and only time I'd been back here. The night when I was twelve years old and starving, and Peeta threw me a burnt loaf of bread.  _He probably doesn't even remember_ , I tell myself as he throws the trash bag into the dumpster against the back wall of the bakery.  _It's not like that night changed_ his  _life._

Peeta pauses on his way through the door, craning his neck around to look at me. "Come on in," he says with a little wave, and I follow him silently up the steps.

The kitchen is already warm - so warm that I notice Peeta's shirt is stuck to his back in places, damp with sweat. His father and brother are already at work, pulling things out of ovens, pushing other things into them, stacking trays of freshly baked bread and cookies onto a giant metal rack on one side of the room. Mr. Mellark sees me and pauses for just a moment to wave. "Hello, Katniss!"

"Hi," I wave back half-heartedly. I follow Peeta out to the front and breathe a sigh of relief almost immediately. It's cool and quiet out here, a world away from the crowded heat of the little kitchen.

"We weren't sure if you'd show up," Peeta says, flicking on the lights beside the door. "You seemed a little terrified."

"Well, I'm here," I say shortly.

"Sorry, I didn't mean it in a bad way." He reaches around to press a button on the back of the register and it springs to life, green digits glowing on a little black screen at the top. "My dad's just been acting a little silly ever since I made it through the Reaping." A drawer slides out from the front of the machine, full of cash. "I'm glad you're here," he adds quietly, like an afterthought.

I don't know what to say to that, so I say nothing.

Peeta walks me through the instructions for using the register, and it seems simple enough. He shows me the bags they use for loaves of bread, and how to wrap a stack of cookies. It's okay to slip a free cookie to a little kid if they look hungry, he tells me, unless his mother is around.

Peeta's mother. Somehow I'd nearly forgotten about her, but now that she's on my mind I'm certain this job was a mistake. I haven't seen her face-to-face since the night Peeta threw me the bread years ago, but if her reaction then was any indication, she hates me.

"She's not too involved with the day-to-day anymore," Peeta assures me, seeming to sense my discomfort. "She hurt her back working on one of the ovens last year, so she mostly sticks to the bookkeeping now." It's small comfort, but at least now I know I'll have to be extra careful with the money in the till, lest she thinks I'm skimming off the top.

We unlock the doors at 6 a.m. sharp, and though I'd envisioned a rush of customers flowing in, there's no one. Peeta says that's not unusual on a Sunday morning, especially one during the Games, after everyone's already spent their extra money on treats for Reaping Day.

"So, you watching the interviews tomorrow night?" he asks casually, leaning back against the wall. I'm perched on the edge of the folding chair that his brother was sitting in yesterday.

It's kind of a dumb question, since viewing is mandatory, but I nod anyway. "As always."

"Me too." Peeta nods his head slowly. "I wonder what color Caesar Flickerman will be this year."

I shudder a little. "Hopefully not red."

Peeta grins and wrinkles his nose, looking at me. "Ugh, I know, that year was so gross. It looked like he was bleeding out of every hole in his head."

"Ew." I smile. "When he was green a long time ago, my little sister was terrified, she thought he was a monster. She'd scream and run away every time he came onscreen."

Peeta snorts. "Primrose, right?" I nod, giving him a questioning look. "I used to volunteer with the little kids' art classes sometimes," he explains, ducking his head.

"Oh. That's nice." Prim never told me Peeta had helped out in her art class, but I suppose there was no reason to. She doesn't know about the bread.

An uncomfortable silence settles over us, and I'm grateful when a customer enters the bakery a few minutes later - my first customer. Peeta gestures me forward, and I step up awkwardly to the counter. "Hello, can I help you?" I glance back at Peeta, unsure, and he gives me a discreet thumbs up.

The transaction is easier than I'd anticipated, though the woman seems surprised to see me behind the counter, rather than one of the blond, blue-eyed Mellark boys. Once she's out the door, loaf of raisin bread in hand, Peeta appears at my elbow and gives me a tentative smile. "That was good. You probably don't even need me here."

He clearly wants to get out of here, so I agree. "Yeah…yeah, I'll be fine. You can go back with your family."

Peeta hesitates – maybe he was just kidding. Maybe he doesn't trust me after all. But he nods, grabbing his apron off the hook by the door where he'd left it to hang. "Okay. Sure, just – let me know if you need anything, okay? I'll be right in here." He hovers by the door. No, Peeta definitely doesn't trust me. And why should he? All he knows about me is I sell his father illegal game every week, and I almost starved to death once when I was twelve years old.

"I know." I turn back to the register and pretend to study the price list of breads and pastries that's taped to the counter. "I'll let you know if there's a problem."

"Alright," he says quietly, pushing open the door. I wait until I'm sure he's gone before I slump over the counter, letting out a long, shaky breath.

\------

I'm home by 3 p.m., which leaves me plenty of time to hunt before the sun sets tonight, but I find I'm exhausted after being on my feet all day. Instead I flop onto the couch beside my mother, who is carefully wrapping bundles of dried herbs in little squares of cloth and tying them off with pieces of twine.

"What's that?" I ask, slipping off my shoes and curling my aching feet beneath me.

"Just potpourri," she says absently, snipping off another piece of twine with a pair of scissors. "For Mrs. Farren. With all those children in the house she needs something to help her relax."

I look around to make sure Prim's not in earshot, and move in closer to my mother, lowering my voice. "Did you think it was strange when Prim didn't want to help with the delivery yesterday?" I whisper.

Her hands pause, and she turns her head to meet my eyes. "She was sick, Katniss. You can't have sick people around newborns."

"She wasn't really sick," I mutter. "I'm  _worried_ about her. I'm worried that she's…"  _Turning into you._ But I can't bring myself to say it, and I trail off instead.

Mother touches my cheek; her hand is cool and smooth. "You worry too much," she says softly. "There's nothing wrong with Prim." She turns back to her bundles of potpourri. "Tell me about your first day at work."

I sigh, but I run through the day's events with her anyway. Maybe Gale and my mother are right – Prim's a normal teenager, and I can't recognize it because I was never one myself. If fourteen-year-old me had slept all day, my family would have starved. Prim has no such weight on her back. I've made sure of that.

When I tell her about the cookie Mr. Mellark slipped me a few days ago when he gave me the job, my mother smiles. "Mr. Mellark is a nice man," she says, setting the last of the potpourri bundles into a small wooden box on the couch beside her.

"Do you know him?" She grew up in town, so it would make sense, but I'm surprised nonetheless.

"We went to school together," she says simply, gathering up her supplies. "I'm taking this over to the Farrens'. Will you tell Prim when she gets home that Lady needs to be milked?"

"Yeah, sure," I mumble, stretching out along the couch, closing my eyes to sleep.

\------

There's a little more business at the bakery the next day, and I'm happy to find it makes the hours go by quicker. Peeta checks on me throughout the day, to make sure everything's running smoothly. He seems nervous around me, and I grow increasingly snippy with him as the hours stretch on. I don't know why they hired me if they're so worried I'm going to steal money from the till.

By the end of the afternoon, I'm past the point of mere annoyance. So when Peeta pops his head in to ask me how things are going five minutes before my shift is up, I explode.

"I'm not stealing any of your precious money!" I cry, whipping around to face him. "That's what you really want to ask me, isn't it?"

Peeta steps forward, letting the kitchen door slowly swing shut behind him. "Katniss…no." He looks genuinely hurt, and a little shellshocked – there's a streak of flour running down the side of his jaw and his hair looks like it was caught in one of those electric whisks they use to make whipped cream. I might even find it a little endearing, if I weren't so angry right now. "I would never think that."

"Then what are you doing out here every five minutes?" I demand. "I'm not an idiot. I can count change."

His eyes dart away from me, and he shifts uncomfortably on his feet. "I guess…I was responsible for everything out here for so long, and now I'm having trouble letting it go." He looks back at me. "I'm sorry," he says sincerely. "I don't think you're stealing money and I definitely don't think you're an idiot."

I look at him for a long moment. I believe him, but I can't shake the feeling that something's off – that he's hiding something. "Okay," I finally say. "I shouldn't have yelled at you."

"That's okay. I've probably been pretty annoying these last couple days." He smiles a little. "I'm not used to spending all this time in the kitchens, around Dad and Brody. It's nice to get a break sometimes." His fingers play with the strings on his apron, hanging loose at his front. "How are you liking it here so far?"

"It's…good," I say, unable to muster much enthusiasm over running a cash register. Peeta nods.

"I know it's not the most exciting job ever. Maybe I could ask my dad to let me show you how to do some stuff around the kitchen. If you want, I mean."

"Oh." I'm distracted by the clock on the wall, which seems to be ticking by slower and slower as the end of my shift approaches. "Uh, sure. That would be nice."

Peeta follows my gaze to the clock. "You can head out, you know. I've got it from here."

"Thanks." I slide around the counter, eager to rest my aching feet. "See you tomorrow."

Walking past the window outside, I glance back in, and see Peeta watching me from his spot by the register. He waves. Feeling suddenly, inexplicably shy, I wave back and hurry home.

\------

That night, my mother, Prim and I head over to the Hawthornes' house to watch the tribute interviews, like we do every year. Prim tries to refuse, claiming her stomach hurts, but I fix her with a steely glare.

"Prim, if we don't leave now we're going to be on the street when the interviews start," I say firmly. "What do you think the Peacekeepers will do with us if they find us wandering around town during a mandatory viewing?" That gets her out of the house, but just barely.

The interviews proceed as they do every year. From the Career districts there are overconfident boys, flexing their muscles for the cameras, and girls caked in makeup and almost nothing else who giggle or smolder and push their chests out. And then there are the children from the poor districts. The ones who look like children, who act like children, who can barely hold it together up on that overlit stage because tomorrow, more likely than not, they are going to die. And they  _know_ it.

I'm so tired I can barely keep my eyes open by the time they reach the District 12 tributes, Astrid and Olli. I hesitate, then let my head drop gently onto Gale's shoulder beside me. The back of his hand brushes up against my thigh, but I pretend not to notice.

"Welcome, Astrid!" Caesar Flickerman's voice booms as the thin, freckled girl delicately makes her way across the stage. He's not red or green this year, thankfully, but light purple. It's pleasant enough, as far as completely unnatural skin tones go.

Astrid looks pretty in a green dress that flares out from the hips, her sandy brown hair in curls around her shoulders. But beneath the matching green eyeshadow and the soft pink blush on her cheeks, her face is stony. Caesar begins the interview and she answers each question dutifully, but never thoroughly or enthusiastically. There's nothing memorable about Astrid at all, I realize sadly. She's just another dead girl walking.

"Now, Astrid." Caesar gets serious, leaning in close as if they're confidantes. "Is there anyone at home you're playing for? Someone special you've got to return for?" He does this at the end of each interview – tries to make it personal, to draw connections between the plucked and primped tributes onstage and their real lives in the districts. Usually they name a sibling or a parent. And even though it's a blatant grab for our heartstrings, it works every time.

The frozen expression on Astrid's face starts to crumble. She nods stiffly.

"Who is it?" he asks softly, sympathetically.

Astrid's eyes break away from Caesar and search the crowd wildly. We don't have a view of the audience, so I don't know what she's looking for, but after a long pause she seems to find it. She breathes in deep.

"Her name is Primrose," she says, voice quavering. "And she's perfect."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! :)


	4. four

The room is silent and still. I’m almost certain time has actually stopped when Prim bolts up from her seat and strides out the front door, slamming it behind her.

 _Her name is Primrose, and she’s perfect._ She can’t mean Primrose Everdeen. She can’t mean my sister. But as far as I know she’s the only the Primrose in District 12. Maybe the only Primrose in all of Panem.

But as soon as the shock begins to ebb away, understanding settles in its place. This is why Prim has hardly eaten all week, why she sleeps all day, why she snaps at me when I ask her a simple question. It’s because she’s in love.

And the girl she loves is going to die.

My mother’s face has drained of color, and I know without any doubt that she is thinking of my father right now. He wasn’t a victim of the Games, but in the end he was a victim of the Capitol, just like Astrid will be. Just like we all will be, in the end.

Gale’s mother Hazelle reaches over and rests a hand on her shoulder. She doesn’t react, just stares straight ahead at the screen with glassy eyes. Vick and Rory look uncomfortable, and little Posy is still asleep, her head resting in Vick’s lap.

I stand. Mother may understand what Prim’s going through better than I ever could, but she’s not the one who could comfort her. “I’ll go find her,” I announce, the words sounding strangely loud as they leave my mouth. Gale moves like he intends to join me, but I shake my head.

With a last glance at my mother, I slip out into the night.

\------

It’s quiet and dark outside, and I do my best to slip silently through the empty Seam. There will be at least thirty minutes more of commenter analysis and audience reactions on the interviews before we’re permitted to shut off our televisions. When the Capitol decrees something mandatory, they’re not kidding around – there are Peacekeepers out on these streets with me, and I’ll be lucky if we don’t cross paths.

The commentary tonight is sure to be a doozy. Every few years there’s a tribute who admits their love for a classmate or neighbor or friend on stage with Caesar. But Astrid is the first to admit her love for another girl.

If their silly reality shows are any indication, no one in the Capitol thinks twice about same-sex couplings – but a tribute from the districts is another story. Maybe it’s different in the other districts, but in District 12, it’s considered…impractical. It’s something only people in the Capitol can _afford_ to do, like dying their skin blue or getting gemstones implanted on your face.

In District 12, the law dictates that houses can only be assigned to a man and a woman who have registered to marry at the Justice Building. Nearly every family needs a child or two for extra hands to help run a business or earn money for food. It may not be right, but that’s how it works.

My instincts lead me back towards our house, and I’m correct. Prim’s curled up in our bed, sobbing, her mangy cat Buttercup stretched out on the blanket beside her. She’s never been one to stray far from home.

“Oh, Prim,” I murmur softly, lying down behind her and wrapping my arm around her middle. She cries harder.

I don’t know what to say. Prim drew the short stick when it came to older sisters – I could teach her how to run and hunt and swim, but not how to make friends, or flirt, or cope when your girlfriend is sent into the Hunger Games to die.

“Shhh,” I whisper, stroking her fine blonde hair. “It’s okay. It’ll be okay.”

We lay together for what feels like hours. Prim’s shuddering sobs give way to hiccups, then quiet, even breaths as she falls asleep. Eventually I hear the low creak of our front door opening, and my mother’s soft footsteps. She pauses in the doorway to our bedroom and meets my eyes in the dark.

We watch each other for a long, silent moment, and then she steps away, shutting her own bedroom door behind her with a click.

\---

When I wake up the next morning, I’m already an hour late for my job at the bakery.

Prim is still fast asleep beside me, her dainty feet poking out from underneath the blanket. I don’t want her to wake up alone today, but I can’t miss my third day of work. I climb out of bed, careful not to disturb her, and slip into my shoes before heading outside in the same clothes I’d fallen asleep in.

“I’m sorry,” I gasp as I barge through the bakery’s back entrance, winded from my sprint through town. Peeta’s head snaps up from behind an oven. I lean against a countertop dusted with flour, sucking in deep breaths of air, trying to ignore the fact that I’m probably dripping with sweat.

“Katniss.” Peeta stands all the way up, wiping his hands on the front of his pants. “What are you –“

“I’m sorry,” I repeat, finally catching my breath. “I know that I can’t be late, and I swear it won’t happen again. Please, don’t fire me. I need this job.”

Peeta blinks. “I’m not going to _fire_ you,” he says. “My dad’s the only one who could do that. And we’re not open today. It’s the first day of the Games, remember?”

It hits me suddenly – the bakery isn’t hot and humming with electricity like it would be on any other day. Peeta’s alone, cleaning out an oven. Because it’s the first day of the Games, and –

“Oh my god,” I choke out, bending at the waist. I feel dizzy. I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid. “Prim – I have to get home, I can’t let her watch it alone –“

“Whoa, slow down.” Peeta is at my side in an instant, laying a warm hand on my shoulder. “Breathe. It’s okay.”

I shake my head wildly. “I have to be with her.” Before I can pull open the door, Peeta grabs my wrist firmly. I look at him in surprise.

“You can’t go out there. There are Peacekeepers out there,” he says calmly. “You’re lucky you weren’t caught on your way here.” He drops my wrist and I pull back, rubbing it with my other hand. “Look, you can watch the opening here, and then head home as soon as it’s over. They don’t patrol after the first hour.”

Every bone in my body aches to run home, to wrap my arms around Prim and protect her from whatever’s coming – but Peeta’s right. If I try to sneak around during the Games in broad daylight, I’ll almost certainly be caught. It’s been so long since someone flouted the mandatory viewing requirements that I’m not even sure what they’d do to me, but I’m sure it would be more than a mere slap on the wrist. “Okay,” I agree shakily. “Okay. I’ll stay.”

He eyes my shirt, and I look down – the fabric sticks to my skin, dark with sweat. “D’you want to…take a shower, or something?” he asks hesitantly. “Upstairs?”

I’m almost tempted. We don’t have a shower at home, just a bath that we fill with water heated on the stove. The few opportunities I’ve had to take a real shower were wonderful – there’s something incredibly soothing about the steam and the hot water flowing over your shoulders and down your back.

But it would be too strange, using the Mellark’s shower. We’re not even friends – I’m just his classmate, now employee. “No, I’m fine.”

“How about I get you a new shirt?” he offers. “Wait here.” Before I can refuse, he’s slipped through another door that must lead to his family’s living quarters. I hear the faint thud of his footsteps running up the stairs to the second story.

The bakery is quiet without him, and as I wait it strikes me how strange it is that I’m here at all. I’d spoken once, maybe twice to Peeta Mellark before our last Reaping Day. Our lives just didn’t overlap…except for that one night, when he gave me the burnt bread. Now I’ll be seeing him practically every day.

Peeta returns a few minutes later with a faded blue t-shirt. “I thought this would fit you. Sorry it’s kind of old.” I shrug. All of my clothes are old.

I don’t really look at the shirt until I’m in the bathroom to change. It’s an old wrestling team shirt, I realize, MELLARK printed in block letters across the back. Peeta and his brothers were the best wrestlers in school, and I remember often seeing him head into the gym at the end of the day as I waited for Prim in the hallway. I wonder if he misses it.

Peeta smiles at me when I return from changing in the bathroom. “I was right. Fits perfectly.”

I glance down at myself again, feeling self-conscious. “Yeah. Thank you. For the shirt,” I add hastily.

“No problem.” He drums his fingertips on the countertop, and I get the sense that he’s weighing his words carefully. “So, you’re welcome to watch upstairs with my family. But we have another tv down here if you want more privacy.” He flushes slightly, aware of how extravagant owning two televisions must sound. “Cray said we have to have another one, so we can watch while we run the bakery.”

It’s an easy choice. “I’ll stay down here,” I say quietly, and he nods, walking across the kitchen to the back where a television sits on one of the metal countertops. Peeta pulls a folding chair from the corner and sets it down in front. He shoves his hands in his pockets, and I’m reminded of just last week, when he did the same thing after I turned down his invitation to Delly’s party.

“Well, I’ll be upstairs if –“

I interrupt him. “You can stay.”

I don’t know how to say this to him, but I don’t want to be alone right now. And there is something about Peeta’s presence – solid, kind Peeta – that is reassuring, calming, to me.

He looks surprised, but pleased, and he grabs another folding chair from the corner, settling into it beside me. He leans forward to switch on the television set, and as it flickers to life another pair of feet thuds down the stairs behind us.

Brody looks agitated, leaning through the doorway into the kitchen. “How long’s it take you to clean a goddamn oven, Peet? Oh.” His eyes widen when he sees me, just for a second, but he tries to play it cool. “Hey Katniss. Wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

“She forgot we were closed today,” Peeta jumps in, glancing at me. “We’re just going to watch the opening down here until she can go home.”

“Right.” Brody’s mouth twitches as if holding back a smile. He holds Peeta’s gaze for a long, strange moment – _too_ long. I can’t pinpoint why, but I start to feel uncomfortable. Finally Brody shrugs and moves his eyes to me, smiling. “Well, I’ll leave you two to it.” He darts back through the doors and up the stairs before I can even react.

“Sorry, he’s a pain sometimes,” Peeta mumbles, turning back to the tv.

“No, he’s fine,” I say softly, and we let the dim glow of the tv screen wash over us as the Games begin.

\---

The bloodbath at the Cornucopia is particularly vicious this year. I turn my head away as the camera closes in on a girl from District 4, hacking savagely at a boy from 9 with a long knife she found in the Cornucopia’s core. Peeta’s eyes are trained on the ground, his hands clenched in fists in his lap. It makes me feel better to see that I’m not the only one affected like this.

Once the scene at the Cornucopia calms down, the screen switches to various camera points throughout the arena, tracking the remaining tributes as they flee downhill. It looks like this year they’re on a mountain, the Cornucopia situated all the way at the top, far above the relative safety of the tree line.

I’m not sure how many tributes made it out of the bloodbath – fourteen or fifteen, I’d guess – but I slump with relief once the cameras confirm that Astrid is one of them. She must have run for the forest immediately, because she’s deep within it now, while others are just reaching the point where a few scraggly trees have eked out a spot high on the mountain slope.

As the camera follows Astrid’s haphazard path through the woods, Peeta’s voice breaks the television’s spell over us.

“Did you know your sister liked girls?” he asks, leaning forward to rest his hands on his knees. His eyes are sympathetic.

“How do you know she likes girls?” I ask suspiciously. Astrid said last night that she liked Prim, but as far as the rest of the country knows, Prim’s feelings are unconfirmed.

He looks at me funny, like it’s a trick question. “Well - Astrid said in the interview last night that her and Prim were dating.”

Of course – Astrid’s interview hadn’t ended just because I stopped paying attention. I wonder what else she said. I wonder what else I don’t know about my little sister.

“Oh. Right.” I shrug. “No. I didn’t really think about her liking boys _or_ girls. She never showed any interest in either.” Not that I would have noticed. I didn’t realize Gale liked _me_ until he flat-out told me.

“Does it bother you?”

“Why, does it bother you?” I shoot back.

“No, not at all,” he says quickly, shaking his head. “I was just asking. Some people around here are pretty…traditional.”

I look back at the screen, which has switched back to a group of Careers picking through the spoils in the Cornucopia. “No, it doesn’t bother me.” The boy from 1 picks up a sledgehammer and twirls it through the air like a baton. “It’s just…not practical.”

Peeta laughs softly. “Love’s not practical, Katniss.”

That’s rich, coming from Peeta Mellark. I’m sure I’ve seen him with at least two or three different girls on his arm in the hallway at school, and they were all pretty and blonde, perfect matches for a Merchant boy whose family owns the town’s only bakery.

“No, it’s not,” I say. “Which is why we should stop acting like it’s the be-all-end-all and focus on the things that matter.”

Peeta is quiet, and I can feel his eyes on me, but I refuse to turn my head and meet them. “That’s an awfully cynical way to think about it,” he says, sounding almost sad.

“I think I can go home now.” I change the subject abruptly. “They’re starting the recaps.” Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith are onscreen now, jovially examining the Games’ first few deaths in sickening, slow-motion detail.

“Oh – okay.” Peeta twists in his seat to watch me as I head for the exit. “We’re open normal time tomorrow.”

“I know.” I pause by the door. “Thanks for letting me watch it here, Peeta.”

“Anytime.” I’m not positive, but I think I hear him sigh as I step into the hot summer sunshine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Apologies for this update being a bit late, but it's also a little longer than the past few, so hopefully that makes up for it. :)


	5. five

On the way home, I’m so caught up in my own head that I’m just a few yards from the house before I notice the little crowd around my front door – impressive, given how outlandish they look. Two of them, hauling what must be television cameras, are dressed in simple black and gray, but the other two appear to have every color of the rainbow covered between them, from their impossibly voluminous hair to their treacherously pointy shoes.

These people are from the Capitol. And their presence at my house can’t mean anything good.

Before they notice me coming I veer sharply to the left, ducking behind a neighbor’s house so I can enter my own through the back undetected. I slip inside quietly. Prim is seated on the couch, pale and trembling, sandwiched between my mother and Gale.

“Where have you been?” Gale demands, standing.

Prim and my mother have every right to be angry with me, but I don’t know why Gale is here in the first place, let alone scolding me. “I thought I had to work today,” I snap. “I couldn’t come back while the viewing was mandatory.”

“Oh right, at the bakery. Where you conveniently neglected to tell me you were working.”

“It’s only been three days. I was going to. And _keep your voice down_ ,” I hiss, moving into his spot on the sofa beside Prim. I clasp her hands in my own. “There are people outside, Prim, from the Capitol. Did you talk to them?”

Prim shakes her head, tears brimming in her eyes. “They wanted to ask me questions about Astrid,” she says hoarsely. “But Gale was here, and he told them to go away.”

I look up at Gale. He’s looking out the window, arms folded defensively across his chest. I feel myself soften. Maybe he can get a little self-righteous, but he cares almost as deeply about Prim as I do. “Thanks,” I tell him quietly. He nods.

I turn back to Prim. “I think we might just have to wait them out. There’s four people out there.”

“There were nearly a dozen this morning, so it shouldn’t be too long before these guys give up,” Gale says.

“Good.” I wrap my arms around Prim, pulling her in for a tight hug. “You okay? I’m so sorry I wasn’t here. It won’t happen again, I promise.”

 “I’m okay,” she says, voice muffled against my shoulder. “She’s alive.”

“She is,” I agree, nodding. _And she’ll come back to you_ , I want to say, but I can’t bring myself to lie.

My mother clears her throat from where she’s still seated on the couch. “I’ve got a few patients to check in with this afternoon,” she says, standing. “Prim, why don’t you get some rest?”

Prim moves to follow her but I lay a hand on my sister’s wrist, stilling her. “Are you sure that’s what’s best for Prim right now?” I’m skeptical. “Maybe she needs to be around people.”

“Katniss, it’s fine,” Prim says quietly, pulling away. “I couldn’t sleep last night. I’m tired, really.”

I hate to admit it, but Mother is probably right – Prim looks drained, and some sleep would do her good. “You sure?” She nods. “Okay. But you can talk to me anytime, little duck. I’m always here for you.”

“I know. Thank you.” She walks towards our bedroom on shaky legs, shutting the door gently behind her.

Mother gathers her bag in silence. She pauses by the back door and meets my eyes. “Be good,” she says evenly, and leaves.

Gale and I are left alone, the air tense between us.

“So you’re working in the bakery now. With Peeta Mellark,” Gale finally says. I roll my eyes.

“Yeah, I am. And you should be happythat I managed to find a job at all.” My stomach growls loudly, reminding me that I didn’t eat this morning before I dashed off to the bakery. I turn and walk into the kitchen, and he follows.

“And you’re wearing his clothes now, too?”

I’d completely forgotten: I’m still wearing the wrestling t-shirt, Peeta’s name stamped across the back. My cheeks flush at the implication. “My shirt was sweaty,” I say defensively, grabbing a jar of leftover rabbit stew from the refrigerator. “He gave me this one to wear instead. It was nice of him.”

“Yeah, real nice of him to _brand_ you,” Gale mutters.

I can’t believe how jealous he is – as if I’d ever run off and shack up with Peeta, a boy I barely know, when I’m not even sure I want that with Gale, whom I’ve known and trusted for years.

“You don’t even know Peeta,” I say dismissively, pouring the stew into a pot over the stove. I’m not sure why I’m defending him. To be honest, I don’t know much about Peeta either – just that he has a knack for doing things that keep me alive: giving me bread, giving me a job, giving me a place to watch the Games while Peacekeepers patrol the streets.

“I know that for years he’s been staring at you when you weren’t looking.”

My hand stills over the pot for a moment, but I quickly resume stirring. “That’s ridiculous,” I say firmly.

“He has a crush on you,” Gale presses on. “And he gave you that job so he could get closer to you.”

I set the spoon down gently, and turn to face Gale. He raises his eyebrows, challenging me to deny it.

“Peeta’s _dad_ gave me the job, because I was the first person he met who wanted it,” I tell him. “Look. I know that we have…things…to figure out. But my job at the bakery has nothing to do with that.”

Gale stares at me, eyes narrowed, for a long moment. Then a sheepish smile cracks over his face and he buries it in his hands, shaking his head. “Catnip,” he groans. “You’re killing me.”

I can’t stop the smile that spreads across my own face in response. “Shut up. You’re fine.” I turn off the stove burner and spoon the warm stew evenly into two bowls.

Gale accepts his bowl gratefully and we sit at the kitchen table, eating in quiet companionship. _I could eat lunch with Gale every day for the rest of my life_ , I think. It’s everything else that I’m not so sure about.

\---

Gale goes home after he helps me clean up from lunch. The reporters from the Capitol are gone by the time he leaves, but I’m afraid they might come back, so I leave the window curtains shut.

Prim is resting in our room and Mother is out seeing a patient, so I put the television on mute and settle onto the couch with my father’s plant book. Years ago, he compiled his knowledge about all the plants found in our forest into written notes, and illustrated them so that we’d always have a reference for edible and poisonous plants. When he died, it was literally a lifesaver, as I used it to help me feed what was left of our family. Nowadays I flip through it when I’m sad or stressed, the familiar curve of his handwritten notes as soothing as an aloe balm.

When I reach the entry for dandelion, I pause, tracing my finger around the edge of the drawing. Dandelions were the first plant I gathered to eat after Peeta’s bread brought me back to life; I suppose they’ll always remind me of him, if only in the back of my mind.

Gale’s words flood my head again: _He’s been staring at you for years. He has a crush on you._ It can’t be true, can it? Is Gale just so stuck on the thought of _us_ that he’s constructing rivalries in his head?

But…in a strange, unsettling way, it makes sense. Peeta must realize by now that I can’t repay him for all the favors he’s done me. Unless – incomprehensibly – the thing he wants in return is _me_.

I shut the book on my lap. I’m going to see Peeta every day now, for better or worse, and this is the last thing I need clouding my mind right now. Besides, I’m making a lot of assumptions here – if Peeta actually _liked_ me, he would have said more than two words to me in the last decade. I place the plant book back on the shelf and pad towards the bedroom, where Prim is.

She’s awake, lying atop the covers, her hands fiddling with a woven leather bracelet. Her eyes are still swollen and bloodshot from crying. I sit beside her and lean against the headboard, crossing my legs beneath me. I say nothing, waiting for her to speak first.

“Astrid gave me this when we were in the Justice Building,” she finally says, weaving the bracelet between her fingers. “Her older brother made it for her.” Her fingers clench into a fist, the leather stretching taut over her knuckles.

“It’s nice,” I say quietly. I rack my brain for any idea of who Astrid’s brother is, but no one comes to mind. I’m almost certain she was from a Merchant family.

“I should’ve had something for _her_ , so she could have a token,” Prim says miserably. “And instead she gave me this.”

I take hold of her hand and squeeze it gently, unsure what to say.

“I’m sorry I never told you.” She pulls her hand away and wipes at the wet tracks running down her cheeks. “I thought – I didn’t want anyone to know. It was our secret,” she breathes out shakily.

I scoot closer to her and reach my arm around her shoulders. She rests her head against my shoulder, tears dripping slowly onto my shirt.

“You don’t have to hide anything from me,” I say softly. “I love you, no matter what.”

Prim closes her eyes. “I never even told her I love her,” she whispers.

I rest my chin atop her head. Part of me can’t even believe we’re having this conversation – that Prim, my little duck, is so grown up, and feeling so much pain. “Do you love her?”

“I don’t know.” She pulls back and looks up at me. Her blue eyes are wide and innocent, betraying how young she really is. “How do you know?”

 _If you give up when she dies – that’s love_. A sick feeling rolls around my stomach.

“I don’t know, Prim,” I sigh. “I guess you just…feel it.”

“But I feel so awful,” she chokes out, fresh tears brimming in her eyes. “I didn’t know I could ever feel this bad.”

“I know,” I say, but I don’t. I can’t even begin to imagine what Prim is feeling. I hope I never do.

\---

We keep the television on all through dinner, like the upstanding citizens we strive to be. Prim hardly touches her food, twisting in her seat to stare at the screen every few minutes, just in case. The cameras never show Astrid, which I take as a positive sign. If you’re offscreen, you’re probably too boring for the Capitol, and that’s almost always a good thing.

After dinner I fill the kitchen sink with soap and warm water and wash Peeta’s wrestling shirt. I’m already nervous about returning to the bakery tomorrow morning. Watching the Games with Peeta was an odd experience – up until now, it’s something I’ve only done in the company of my family and the Hawthornes.

There’s a cool breeze outside as I pin the damp shirt to the clothesline in the backyard. The sky is dappled in orange and pink as the sun sets behind the mountains in the distance, and a handful of fireflies blink bright in the tall grass. Evenings in District 12 are often beautiful during this time of year, but they’re difficult to appreciate, because in the back of my mind there are always the Games. Always, always the Games.

I don’t hear my mother’s footsteps until she’s almost reached my side. I think she’s come out to bring in yesterday’s wash, but she stands beside me and follows my gaze towards the sunset before turning towards me, opening her mouth to speak.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt out before she can say anything. She looks surprised, but lets me continue.

“I shouldn’t…I don’t know what Prim’s going through,” I admit, looking down at my feet. “You know better than anyone, maybe. It’s not fair for me to blame you for – what I’m afraid will happen.”

Mother says nothing, just steps forward and encloses me in a hug. I raise my own arms around her stiffly. We almost never embrace, and when we do I’m always struck by how thin and fragile she feels – she’s never had the warm, reassuring presence that most children crave in a parent. My father filled that role in our family.

When we break apart she smiles sadly, smoothing a stray hair back behind my ear. “Prim will be okay,” she says. “She’s strong. She’s like you.”

 _Stronger,_ I think. Prim might not know whether she loves Astrid – but she’s opened herself up enough to another person to accept the possibility. She’s healed from the loss of our father, and moved forward. I know I should do the same, but it’s been seven years and the thought of relying on another person that way still paralyzes me.

Mother moves forward to collect the dry clothes from the clothesline. She pauses at the blue shirt I’d hung just a few minutes before. “What’s this?”

Heat rises in my cheeks as I think again of Gale’s reaction to the shirt this morning. “I was sweaty when I got to the bakery today, so Peeta lent it to me.” She nods, eyebrows slightly raised. “It’s not a big deal,” I add defensively, but she only shrugs and turns back to the bedsheets rustling in the wind.

“I’m going to bed early,” I mutter. “Goodnight.” I stride back into the house and into my bedroom, collapsing into bed. If I ever have to run all the way to work in the heat again, I’m bringing my own change of clothes next time.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for your comments and kudos! :) You are all awesome!
> 
> Just a couple little things to note:
> 
> 1\. I made a Tumblr for my fic! (to finally catch up with the other 95% of fandom who already have them.) It's at imloveleee.tumblr.com. I haven't got everything set up yet but I think it'll be fun.
> 
> 2\. I'll do my best to get the next update done by Sunday, but it might be a couple days late. I was on vacation all this week and I'll probably be putting in some long hours at work this week to make up for it...sigh.
> 
> 3\. I hope Gale isn't coming across as a total dick here. I find him difficult to write because I don't think he's a jerk, but I do think he's hot-headed, plus by this point he's got to be more than a little fed up with Katniss' total emotional incompetence.


	6. six

I wake up alone. My throat constricts with panic until I hear the dull buzz of our television set – Prim must have fallen asleep in front of it last night.

I find her sleeping on the couch, a threadbare blanket tangled around her feet. One hand is stretched out over her head, and her slim, delicate fingers look almost transparent in the dim morning light. The tv is muted, but the tribute counter in the corner of the screen reads thirteen. Someone must have died last night.

I tiptoe quietly through the room and go out back to grab Peeta’s dry shirt from the clothesline. The fabric is stiff after drying in the air all night, and I fold it carefully before heading into town.

He looks surprised when I enter the kitchen through the back and hand the clean shirt to him, quickly wiping his hands on his apron to rid them of flour. “Oh! You didn’t have to wash that. Thanks, Katniss.”

“It’s not a big deal,” I mumble, echoing my words to my mother the night before. But suddenly, now that I’m here – now that Gale has planted the idea that Peeta Mellark is (maybe, possibly, probably not really) _interested_ in me – everything feels like a big deal. The way his fingers flex around the t-shirt in his hand. The way he’s still standing here, looking at me, even though I haven’t met his eyes once since I walked in the room. It makes me nervous.

We stand awkwardly together until Peeta looks away to the television in the back of the kitchen, which I suppose will be playing all day from now on. “Did you see last night?” he asks, and I shake my head. “It was Olli.”

Olli, the thirteen-year-old boy from District 12. My heart sinks a little even as a flash of shame cuts through me. I don’t know anything about Olli – not even his last name. At the Reaping I’d been so overwhelmed with relief that it wasn’t me, wasn’t Prim, that I hardly noticed them choose the male tribute. And his interview…I can’t be the only person who was too shocked by Astrid’s confession to forget that there was even another one coming.

“Did you know him?” I ask. Olli was blonde, and I didn’t recognize him from around the Seam, so I assume he must have lived in town.

Peeta’s eyes grow suddenly wet and he blinks rapidly, looking away. “Um, kind of. From the art classes I helped teach, you know.”

“Oh.” I search for something to say. “Kind of strange, two tributes from town this year.”

It clearly wasn’t the right thing to say, because Peeta looks uncomfortable, the way most Merchants do if you ever point out the class lines dividing our district. But he nods anyway.

“Either your name comes out or it doesn’t.” Peeta shrugs. “Those aren’t good odds for anyone.”

Suddenly Brody thunders past me out of nowhere, a massive sack of flour in his arms. I jump back, startled, banging my hand against a metal bowl that clatters to the floor. “Somebody’s on edge this morning,” he teases, grinning at me over his shoulder.

“Leave her alone, Brody,” Peeta says immediately, and I find myself annoyed. I don’t need Peeta to protect me from his brother’s dumb comments. He brushes his fingers against my arm in concern. He’s touchy, Peeta. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.” I pick up the metal bowl and place it back on the table. “I can handle him myself,” I tell Peeta brusquely, and go out front to start setting up for the day. After a pause he follows me through the swinging door.

“I know you can,” Peeta says. I try to ignore him, pretending to be very interested in the process of opening the cash register, but it’s tough given that it only takes about ten seconds. “I’m just trying to be nice. Since you’re new here.”

“Well, you don’t have to.”

I allow myself a brief glance at his face. He looks taken aback. “I thought – I guess I thought after yesterday, we could be friends.”

Bending down, I grab a spray bottle and washrag from the space beneath the counter. “I just work here, Peeta.”

He’s silent. I can feel his eyes on me as I wipe down the countertop. There’s a twinge of guilt in my gut, but honestly, this is for the best. I’m not the kind of girl that belongs with a boy like Peeta. The sooner he knows that, the better.

“Can you help me bring out the pastries for the front window?” he finally asks, disappearing into the kitchen before I can answer.

“Sure,” I say to no one in particular, and follow him into the back.

\---

The next few days are awful.

Peeta’s reserved. Not cold, exactly; he’s just as polite as ever, but he keeps his distance. If he needs my help with something, he asks for it and moves on. He doesn’t check up on me again. When I poke my head into the kitchen to let the Mellarks know I’m leaving at the end of the day, he doesn’t turn around, just waves his hand over his shoulder in a vague sort of goodbye.

I’ve hurt him, I realize, and I’m surprised at how bad it makes me feel.

Although his near-constant presence had irritated me during my first few days up front, solitude is worse. Customers are infrequent, and the empty hours stretch on endlessly. About half of the few people who do show up seem to recognize me – they exchange long looks with one another and giggle once they’re out the door. It’s only after the first day of this that I realize they’re probably not gossiping about me. They’re gossiping about Prim. It only makes me angrier.

When I’m not stewing over the awful customers, my mind wanders to the strangest things in its boredom: The exact shade of Peeta’s striking blue eyes, which I had never really noticed until I started working here. The little scar on Gale’s jaw that I’ve always wondered but never asked about. The many ways in which Astrid Mullen could die in the Hunger Games, and what my sister will do when she does.

Home isn’t much better than the bakery. The cameras from the Capitol don’t show up on our doorstep again, but it wouldn’t matter if they did, because Prim hardly leaves her spot on the couch. She’s transfixed by the television, watching for hours at a time, always rubbing the leather bracelet tied around her thin wrist. Mother and I try to interest her in anything else – helping me cook dinner, mixing ointments for Mother’s patients, tending to her goat, Lady – but she refuses to move.

“What if I’m not here? If she…” Prim whispers to me one night, her eyes wide and haunted. “I’d never forgive myself.”

I sit beside her, fumbling for the right words. “Prim, you can’t…that’s…” I sigh. “Life has to keep going on.”

She doesn’t answer, just stares back at the screen, where Astrid is settling into her hiding space for the night. Two days ago she’d stumbled across a large cluster of mountain laurels growing beneath an outcropping of rocks, and found just enough space between the rocks and the bushes to curl up in her sleeping bag. So far it’s worked well for her – one evening a pair of Careers even trudged right past the bushes, oblivious to her presence just a few feet away. I’m pretty sure I’ll have scars from how deeply Prim dug her nails into my hand when we watched that happen.

But although Astrid seems adept at evading the other tributes, it’s hard to ignore how thin she’s become – and she was a slim girl to begin with. As far as I can tell, all she’s had to eat for five days is berries. It pains me each time the cameras catch a glimpse of a squirrel or a bird she could hunt for meat, if she knew how.

The only place where I truly feel comfortable is in the woods, alone with my bow and arrows and thoughts. In the forest there are no hurt feelings, no quiet sobs, no blaring television, no shades of gray. There is only me and my prey, the hunter and the hunted.

There’s still death in these woods – that’s something I’ll never escape, not really – but it’s natural, necessary, a function of survival. It belongs here, just as much as the life that hums in the grass and bushes and trees.

Sometimes I wish I could bring Prim out here and make her understand that. She’s a healer, so intent on staving off death that she could never accept it as a good thing – as something that makes life itself more valuable, more meaningful.

But in the end, none of this would help Prim right now, because it’s only true outside the bounds of District 12. There is nothing natural about death in our world: not the children who starve, nor the ones who turn on each other with sharp metal and heavy rocks. There’s nothing natural about what’s happening to Astrid.

\---

Sunday rolls around again, and this time I’m given the day off, so I meet Gale to go hunting. He’s exhausted, and trying to hide it, but I notice: in the heaviness of his footsteps, the way his fingers fumble at the knots in his snares.

“How’s your family doing?” I ask, knowing that if Gale is losing sleep, it most likely has something to do with his younger siblings.

“Fine,” he says shortly, scanning the trees for a squirrel or a bird.

I stare at him, unconvinced. “Seriously?”

Gale sighs, dropping his gaze down to mine. “Vick got caught fooling around with some girl from town. In her bed. And now her dad is saying Vick stole some jewelry from them when he was sneaking around their house at night, and that we owe him for it, or he’ll turn Vick over to the Peacekeepers.”

My jaw drops. I hadn’t expected _that_. “That’s terrible. But he can’t provethat Vick took the jewelry if he’s lying –“

Gale snorts. “He probably _did_ take it. Vick’s an idiot. He doesn’t think about consequences, which is why I’m the one who always has to face them.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been working twelve-hour shifts all week, Catnip,” he says, leaning against a tree trunk. “I’d be there today if the mines were open on Sunday. Do you have any idea how much money some Merchant woman’s stupid silver bracelet costs?” He sighs again. “It’s unbelievable, the things those people spend money on. Typical Merch.”

“They’re not all like that,” I say quietly.

“Oh, right.” Gale folds his arms over his chest. “Now that you’re best friends with Peeta Mellark, I guess you know all about their spending habits.”

I can’t help it; I bristle. “You’re wrong about Peeta,” I snap. “He doesn’t like me.”

Gale rolls his eyes. “I’m not wrong about Peeta.”

“He never even spoke to me until a week ago,” I insist. “And we’re not getting along so great at the bakery. We haven’t spoken in days.”

“I’m not wrong about Peeta,” he repeats, pushing off of the tree trunk and bending down to retrieve a snare he’d left tangled on the ground.

“You’re just jealous,” I mutter.

“Yeah, okay? I am!” he exclaims, throwing the bundle of knots back to the ground in frustration. “I’m jealous that Peeta Mellark doesn’t have to risk his life coming out here to hunt just so he can feed his family. I’m jealous that he doesn’t have to work twelve hours a day to pay off some debt that’s not even his. I’m jealous that he gets to spend all day with you in a cozy little bakery while I’m picking at rocks in a coal mine.”

I don’t know what to say, so I keep my mouth firmly shut. Gale’s not wrong – Peeta has, will always have, a much easier life than Gale ever will. And while it’s not fair to blame him for his good luck, it’s tempting nonetheless.

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Gale mumbles, brushing past me to grab his bow from where he’d left it lying on a large, flat rock. He stalks deeper into the woods, stopping short when he’s a few yards away. “You coming?”

“Yeah – “ My voice catches in my throat, and I cough to hide it. “Yeah, I’m coming.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello - I'm sorry this is coming a few days late! Thank you so much for your reviews, kudos, and reassurances about Gale. :) They are all much appreciated.
> 
> You're probably all hating me right now for how sloooowly the Peeta & Katniss relationship is progressing, but fear not, there will be more Peeta in the next chapter!


	7. seven

On Monday morning, Mr. Mellark stops me on my way through the kitchen. “Katniss, hold up a second.”

I freeze, my heart dropping into my stomach as I watch him hustle off into the little office in the back, next to the bathroom. He’s upset at how I’ve treated Peeta. He’s going to reprimand me. He’s going to fire me.

“It’s payday!” he announces cheerfully, eyes on the little stack of cash he’s thumbing through as he walks towards me. He stops short and frowns when he sees my face. “Is something wrong?”

“No, no,” I say quickly, gratefully accepting the money. “Thank you.”

“Well, you’ve earned it.” He nods, but pauses just as he’s turning away. “I’m sorry it can’t be more,” he says quietly. “It’s lean times for everyone, I suppose.”

I smile weakly. It hasn’t escaped my notice that the Mellarks aren’t quite as well off as I’d once imagined. They’re doing better than my family, obviously – they can afford to buy my squirrels, after all – but Peeta and Brody never seem to eat anything but hard, dry leftovers from the bakery at lunchtime.

His smile is sad in return, and as I watch him amble away, I notice Peeta looking at me from the other end of the room. I meet his eyes and he turns away quickly.

I decide: I’m going to do it today. I’m going to swallow my pride and apologize.

\---

All morning I peek through the little window on the swinging door to see if it’s the right moment to approach Peeta. I don’t want his brother or dad to overhear me, and I don’t want them to see me pulling him aside – I already know what kind of smug little smile I’d get from Brody for that.

Peeta’s finally left alone a little before lunchtime, when Brody leaves to make some deliveries. His back is to me as he kneads a ball of dough on one of the long metal tables. With a last glance at the front door – no customers – I slip into the kitchen.

He doesn’t even notice me until I’m at his side. Peeta wouldn’t have lasted long in the Games, that’s for sure. “Hey,” he says, jerking back a little in surprise. “Wow, you’re quiet.”

I smile a little. “Years of practice in the woods.”

He nods, turning back to his dough. It’s sticky and spongy, clinging to his fingers. “What’s up?”

I take a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”

Peeta flips the ball of dough over and begins working the other side with his hands. His nails are cut very short, I notice, probably so he doesn’t get batter and dough caught up underneath them when he’s working. There are little white scars all over his hands, too – burns from the ovens, I think. “What for?”

“Last week.” I swallow, shifting uncomfortably. “You _were_ just trying to be nice, and…I shouldn’t hold that against you. And…I think we could be friends, if you still want. I don’t have many friends,” I finish quietly.

Peeta’s eyes don’t leave the table, but I can see the corner of his mouth twitching, like he’s suppressing a smile. “Okay,” he says evenly. “We can be friends.”

“Okay,” I agree, feeling oddly shy, now that we’ve said it out loud. “Good.” I back away, leaving him to his bread.

But he doesn’t let me leave – he reaches out and grabs my hand. “Well, wait,” he says, dropping it quickly. “You’re going to say we’re friends, and then not even hang out with me?”

He’s teasing me, I think. “I have to work,” I say uncertainly. “There’s no one out front.”

Peeta cranes his neck around. Maybe he’s tall enough to see through the little window on the door from here – I’m certainly not. “I’ll keep an eye on it,” he says, smiling down at me. “Do you want to help me make some bread?”

Peeta splits the dough into two sections and shows me how to knead the dough properly, digging his knuckles in deep. It’s kind of fun, surprisingly. And he stays true to his word, brushing my arm gently with his elbow when a customer enters the bakery twenty minutes later.

I rush towards the door, skidding to a stop right before I swing through it. “Thanks,” I say.

“Anytime,” he replies.

\---

Things are back to normal the next morning, and it’s a relief. All three of the Mellarks greet me when I arrive in the morning, and Peeta shows up out front before the first hour has even passed.

“So I asked my dad, and he said if you want to, you can do some more work in the kitchens instead of standing out here all day.” He’s got a nervous energy this morning, shifting on the balls of his feet next to me.

“Really?” I ask, skeptical. “What if a customer comes in?”

“They can get our attention with this.” Peeta produces a little silver bell from the pocket in his apron, the kind you tap with the palm of your hand to ring.  

Fair enough. I’d rather be doing something useful with my downtime than counting cracks in the ceiling and worrying about Prim. “Alright,” I agree. Peeta smiles and holds the door open, waving me through.

“After you.”

\---

Peeta shows me how to whip up a buttercream frosting; Brody shows me how to roll out a baguette; Mr. Mellark shows me how to fold slices of cheese into the center of doughy little buns. The cheese buns are my favorite. Mr. Mellark says we have to try at least one bun out of every batch to make sure they turned out right – I think he’s just being overly kind, but I eat them eagerly anyway.

I also learn some of the little bakery tricks they employ. They’re things I’d never thought about, but that make perfect sense now that I know. Like the cakes in the window – the ones Prim loved to admire on the walk home from school. They’re not real. They’re cardboard.

“We can’t waste a whole cake like that in the window,” Peeta explains, piping dark green frosting around the edge of the fake cake. “Too many eggs.”

“I feel betrayed,” I say, and he laughs.

“Well, don’t tell anyone. We can’t have the customers learning all our secrets.”

I smile. “It would ruin Prim’s day. Actually, probably her whole year.”

An hour later, Peeta brings the model cake out for the window display as I’m ringing up a few loaves of bread for a middle-aged woman from town. “My goodness,” she crows, “That smells delicious, Peeta!”

We lock eyes, and it’s everything I can do not to laugh. “Well, you just let us know and we’ll whip one up for you custom-made, Mrs. Harold,” Peeta says cheerily.

He nudges me on his way back into the kitchen. “Go take a look,” he says, nodding towards the window.

I wait until Mrs. Harold has left, and then walk over to the front display to look at the cake. Right on top, there’s a little squirrel, made of brown frosting piped to look like fur. It’s surrounded by leaves, in alternating shades of green, with dapples of yellow that look like sunlight.

I breathe in deeply, trying to calm the sudden warmth spreading through my chest and my cheeks. There’s no reason to react so strangely, to something so silly.

It’s just…no one’s ever made a cake for me before, real _or_ fake. That’s all.

\---

The only real downside to spending more time in the kitchen is the television. It’s always on, always airing the Games.

“How’s Prim doing?” Peeta asks me quietly one afternoon, as we’re standing side by side, wrapping cookies into stacks of three. Astrid’s onscreen, but she’s only sleeping, even though it’s the middle of the afternoon. It’s day nine of the Games, and there are ten tributes left.

“Mm. Okay.” We may be “friends” now, but it doesn’t mean I want to talk to Peeta about my sister. She’s been in a holding pattern for days – quiet, tense, glued to the tv set.

“If there’s anything I can do, let me know.” He eyes the stacks of cookies thoughtfully, then slides one towards me. “You should take home some cookies for her tonight.”

I push the cookies back. “You have to stop doing that,” I say, keeping my voice low. Brody is about twenty feet away, washing all of the day’s bowls and utensils, and I don’t want him to hear me over the water rushing from the tap.

“What do you mean?”

“Giving me things,” I hiss. “I can’t pay you back for this.”

“Pay me back?” he repeats. “What are you talking about? It’s just cookies. You work here.”

“It’s not just the cookies,” I insist. He looks at me in question, and I sigh. “It’s the shirt, the job…” I swallow. “The bread.”

Peeta’s hands still, resting on the table. He’s silent. So he does remember that night. “You remember that?” he finally whispers.

Is he crazy? “Of course I do,” I say, my hands trembling slightly as I wrap another stack.

“I thought…” He frowns. “You never said anything.”

He’s right. I didn’t. I meant to, at first, but the time never seemed right – and what would I have said? “I never knew how,” I admit, studying the cookie in my hand.

“Katniss.” He sounds so serious that I have to look at him – his eyes are wide, with an intensity I can’t quite place. “You don’t _owe_ me anything.”

But I do, in a way Peeta will never understand. Because Peeta’s never been desperate. Peeta’s never scraped so close to death he could taste it, sour in the back of his throat. Peeta’s never had to be rescued. He can’t possibly know how terrifying it is, how demeaning it is, and how indescribable it feels for someone to finally pull you out of that dark place.

It feels like getting a gift you don’t deserve, and you spend every day wondering how you can give it back.

“You don’t get it,” I mutter.

“Then explain it to me.” I can feel his eyes on me, but I just shake my head.

“I can’t.” I toss the last stack of cookies down on the table, flinching a little when the one on top cracks in half, and head for the door. “I think I hear someone out front.”

“No you don’t,” he says loudly, stopping me in my tracks. “You…every time I think I’m getting somewhere with you, you run away,” he says, his voice dropping, disappointed.

 _Getting somewhere?_ I don’t even want to think about what he means. I shrug helplessly. “Sure. Whatever, Peeta,” I say, stumbling over the words.

Once I’m behind the front counter I slide to the ground, my back against the wall, tears pricking at my eyes. The stress of the last few weeks is making me act crazy. I’m frustrated and worried about Prim, I’m fighting with Gale…I don’t _want_ to be cruel to Peeta, but somehow it seems like it’s the only thing I’m capable of.

The door swings open beside me and I turn away, wiping at my eyes roughly. A body settles onto the ground beside me, large and sturdy and male. “Hey, Katniss.”

It’s Brody. In the moment I’d forgotten he was standing there the whole time, and now I’m embarrassed. I keep my head turned away, in case my face gives away that I’ve almost been crying. “Hey.”

“Is everything okay?” His gentle tone takes me by surprise; until now, everything I’ve heard out of Brody’s mouth has been sardonic and teasing.

“Yeah,” I breathe out slowly. “I’m fine.”

“That’s good.” He doesn’t press me, and I’m grateful. He sighs. “Look…Peeta’s going to hate me for saying this, but I feel like I have to.” I glance over at him, and he’s staring down at his hands, hanging in his lap. “My brother…he’s sensitive. I don’t like seeing him get hurt. I know you’re not doing it on purpose, but…if you don’t like him, just say it.”

I frown, unsure what he means. “I _do_ like Peeta,” I say softly. “He’s nice.”

“Yeah, but not the way he likes you. Right?” Brody raises his eyebrow at my blank look. “Katniss. Come on.”

“What?”

“You _have_ to know,” Brody insists. I shake my head, confused. “Seriously?”

I say nothing, and he laughs in disbelief. “Oh, he’s going to kill me.” Brody runs a hand down his face and sighs again. “Katniss, he _likes_ you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the reviews & kudos! Hope you enjoy. :)


	8. eight

My body reacts as it did the day before, when I saw Peeta’s cake: heart racing, mouth dry, face growing hot. Fight or flight is kicking in, but now there’s nowhere to run.

When Gale claimed Peeta had a crush on me, it was easy to write it off as jealousy, but this is Peeta’s brother. He’s known Peeta for his entire life. They spend all day, every day together in the bakery kitchen. _Do they talk about me?_ The thought hits me like a punch in the gut.

Brody’s quiet, and I realize he’s waiting for a response. “Oh” is all I can muster.

“Yeah…you really didn’t know?”

“I sort of guessed,” I admit quietly, though what I really mean is my best friend guessed and I promptly expelled it from my mind. Brody smiles crookedly, but there’s a sadness in his eyes, too.

“He can be a little obvious,” he agrees. “I mean, that squirrel thing he made. I told him not to do it, but he insisted.”

“Ha, yeah,” I respond, clearing my throat. I'm an idiot.

Brody shakes his head. “Just –  let him down easy, okay?” He claps me on the shoulder, then hoists himself back onto his feet. “Good talk, Katniss.”

\---

 _Peeta likes me._ I mull over the words in my head. He _likes_ me. He likes _me._

Brody and Peeta leave me alone for the rest of the afternoon, but try as I might, I can’t stop thinking about what Brody said. The fake squirrel cake is still in the window, and every time someone stops outside to admire the handiwork – which is often – I feel like it’s mocking me. How clueless can I be? Even Peeta Mellark wouldn’t waste that much effort decorating a cake for someone he only likes as a friend.

I try to picture myself and Peeta as a couple, but I just…can’t. It’s too strange. He’s blond hair, blue eyes, big smile; I’m Seam through and through, from my permanent scowl down to my tattered shoes. It’s much easier to see myself and Gale: gray eyes, black hair, olive skin. Hunter’s instincts. A matched pair.

The truth is, if I’m ever with another person in that way – holding hands, kissing, touching – it _will_ be with Gale. More and more I’m realizing that it’s inevitable. In practically every way, it makes sense. We already care for one another’s families, almost like they’re our own. In the woods we’re totally in sync, anticipating each other’s movements before they even happen. We trust one another.

And I do love him, in my way; maybe not the way he wants, but maybe that’s for the best. I’ll never end up like my mother and Prim if I’m never in as deep as they were. As they are.

I leave the bakery as soon as the clock strikes three, and I’m halfway down the street before I hear heavy footsteps crunching on the gravel behind me. “Katniss, wait,” Peeta calls out, jogging slightly to catch up.

I pause, so nervous that my stomach feels like it’s literally fluttering. Peeta stops a few paces away, his cheeks flushed from the exertion of chasing after me.

 _Do you want to kiss me right now?_ I wonder, staring at his mouth. His lips are pink and slightly parted. _Do you know that I know?_

“Hey,” he says, taking a step closer. My instinct is to back away, but I force my feet to stay in place. I don’t want to let on that I’m aware of his crush.

“Hello.”

“I wanted to apologize,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets, but keeping his eyes on mine. “I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable. It just, it really surprised me when you said you remembered the bread. I hate to think that you spent all these years thinking I expected something in return from you.”

“It’s okay,” I say quickly. There’s a new tension in the air between us, but I can’t tell if I’m the only one feeling it. Did Brody tell him? Probably not; he did say Peeta would kill him, after all. As far as Peeta knows, I’m still just feeling awkward about our argument.

“It’s not okay,” he insists. He edges slightly closer, and my breath catches in my throat. “I should’ve said something.” He lets out a long breath. “To be honest, I’ve thought about that day so –“

“Peeta.” I stop him before he can finish the thought. “Really, it’s okay. It’s not your fault. I take things the wrong way sometimes.”

Peeta stares at me for the longest moment, and finally nods. “Alright.” He shrugs. “I just wanted you to know.”

“I do,” I assure him. “Thank you.”

“Sure.” He hesitates, like he doesn’t want to leave quite yet. “See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah, I’ll see you.” I turn and start to walk away before he can drag this out any further.

Without knowing why, I glance over my shoulder after a few paces. He’s looking back at me, too. He lifts his hand in a half-wave. My fingers twitch to wave back, but I just keep on walking.

\---

Prim shocks me that evening at dinner, when she announces that she wants to go watch the Games in the town square.

Every night when the sun sets, they project the Games up on a giant screen on the stage where the Reaping takes place. Whoever’s in charge of the Games tends to save the action for these primetime hours; this is when they’re most likely to set a pack of muttations after the tributes, or flood the arena. It’s also the time when you get the most running commentary from Claudius Templesmith.

Attendance isn’t required, but it’s encouraged, since the Peacekeepers know you’re watching if you’re in the square. Once you’re there, you can’t leave until it’s over, three hours later.

Some people draw comfort from watching the Games as a community, but I’ve never been one of them. My family goes once or twice per year, just to keep up appearances for the Peacekeepers, but most nights we watch in the privacy of our own home, or at the Hawthornes’.

Normally I’d discourage Prim from going, but it’s the first time she’s expressed interest in leaving the house in over a week. “Okay,” I say uncertainly, glancing at my mother. “If that’s what you want.”

“It is,” Prim says. “I’m going to go get ready.” She gets up from the table, leaving a half-eaten bowl of soup behind. At least her appetite’s improving – most nights she’s forced down just a few bites of food before returning to her spot on the couch.

“Do you know why she wants to go?” I whisper to Mother once Prim’s out of earshot.

She smiles sadly. “I think she’s just getting ready to accept that life keeps moving on.”

I wonder if she overheard me say something similar to Prim a few days ago. I wonder if she realizes how ironic the statement is, coming from her, and if it makes her feel guilty for what she did to us when my father died. But I don’t comment on it; I just scrape the last few vegetables out of my bowl and carry it over to the sink with Prim’s. “I’m going to go see if the Hawthornes want to come,” I tell her, rinsing out the dishes. “More friendly faces might make it easier for her.”

“That’s a good idea,” she says, joining me at the sink. I accept her bowl silently and run it under the water flowing from the tap. “You haven’t been seeing as much of Gale since you started that job.”

“No,” I agree, avoiding her eyes. I don’t like talking about Gale with my mother.

“How is Peeta doing? Do you work with him a lot?”

Correction: I don’t like talking about _any_ boy with my mother.

“He’s fine,” I say vaguely. “We don’t really work together. I don’t know.” That’s not technically true, now that I’m helping out with the baking more, but there’s no reason for her to know that. It’ll just set her down a new path of prying questions that she has little right to ask.

“That’s too bad,” she says, taking the clean bowl back from me to dry. “He seems like a nice boy.”

I frown. Does _she_ know about Peeta’s crush? Am I literally the only person who didn’t see this coming? “Sure,” I say shortly. “So, I’m heading over to the Hawthornes’ now – I’ll meet you and Prim there?”

She nods, reaching up to place the bowl back on the shelf that hangs over our sink. “We’ll see you there.”

\---

Vick looks surprised to see me when he answers the door. “Hey Katniss.” He steps back to let me in. “Gale! Katniss is here.”

Gale appears from his bedroom almost instantly, buttoning up his shirt. His hair is damp – he must be fresh out of the bath. “Catnip,” he greets me. “What are you doing here?”

“Prim and my mother and I are all going to watch in the square tonight,” I tell him. “I thought it might be nice if you all came, too.”

“For Prim.” Gale nods, understanding immediately. “Yeah, why not. Mom took Posy with her to deliver some laundry, but we’ll go with you. Think you can keep it in your pants around all those town girls, Vick?”

Vick shoots him a murderous glare. “Fuck you.”

I struggle not to laugh as Vick stalks off into the bedroom. Gale just rolls his eyes. “You’d think he’d be more grateful to the brother who’s working his ass off so he doesn’t get _turned into the Peacekeepers!”_ he calls over his shoulder.

“Fuck you!” Vick’s voice carries out from the other room.

Gale shrugs. “Teenagers.”

I punch him lightly in the arm. “ _I’m_ still a teenager.”

“Yeah, exactly.” I laugh, and Gale grins, tugging once on my braid.

Gale, Vick and Rory pull themselves together quickly and we head out for the square. The boys rib each other all the way into town, shoving, teasing, laughing. They’re different from Peeta and Brody, I realize. They’re closer. The Mellarks obviously care for one another – Brody had said as much to me this morning – but there’s a distance there. I haven’t even seen the oldest brother since I started working at the bakery, now that I think of it.

About halfway there Gale steps away from his brothers, hanging back to walk beside me. We walk in comfortable silence for a few minutes, until his hand brushes lightly against mine. I don’t react, but I can feel him glancing at me. Then his fingers curl around mine more firmly. Suddenly, we’re holding hands.

Every other time this has happened, I’ve pulled away, playing with my hair or scratching the back of my neck. But tonight I let our fingers entwine. His hand is rough and dry, and much bigger than mine. Unbidden, I think of Peeta’s hands, the little white scars littered across his skin.

We don’t speak, but once the crowd in the square enters our view our hands fall away to our sides. I sneak a glance at Gale; he’s looking straight ahead, but his lips are curved up into the slightest smile. I’m not sure how I feel about it, but it strengthens my resolve for what I’m planning to do tonight.

Prim and Mother are waiting for us by the back edge of the crowd. Prim’s still pale and skinny, of course, but her hair is shiny and neat, pulled back in a blue ribbon that matches her eyes. Her shirt is neatly tucked into her pants, which look like they’ve been ironed. It’s the best she’s looked since Reaping Day.

The boys exchange _hellos_ with my mother and Prim, but Prim’s focused on me. She needs me, I realize. “You ready?” I ask her quietly. I reach my hand out for hers, unsure if she’ll take it. She hasn’t let me hold her hand in public in over a year.

Her fingers are cold against mine, but her grip is almost painfully tight. “I’m ready,” she says, and we step together into the crowd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you thank you thank you for your reviews! I really appreciate them all. 
> 
> I really enjoyed writing this chapter. Hope you like it too. :)


	9. nine

I’m not surprised that we get a lot of odd looks and whispers as we make our way towards an open spot in the square. What does surprise me is how gracefully Prim handles the attention.

Some of the people we pass smile sadly, murmuring soft sounds of sympathy. One woman I recognize as a teacher from the school even rests her hand comfortingly on Prim’s shoulder for a moment.

But there are others who cover their mouths and giggle when they see her, who lean over to whisper into a friend’s ear as we pass. Somewhere among the crowd a boy says loudly: “You cheating on your girlfriend with your _sister_?”

I whip my head around in anger, ready for a confrontation, but Prim grips my hand tighter and rests her other hand on my arm. “It’s fine,” she says in a low voice. “He’s an idiot. I don’t care.”

I look at my sister, ready to argue, but in the moment I’m struck by how grown-up she suddenly looks. She’s standing tall, chin up, eyes clear and alert. “I’m proud of you,” I say abruptly, and she smiles a little.

“Thanks.”

“I think here is good,” Mother pipes up from behind us, gesturing to the little clearing before us. She pulls a threadbare sheet from a woven basket she’d brought along, and Gale helps her spread it on the ground for us to sit on. As they’re smoothing out the wrinkles, a small cluster of girls Prim’s age step forward.

“Hi Prim,” one of them says with a smile. Her black hair is cropped at chin-length, and her collarbones jut prominently from beneath the worn collar of her shirt. This is Jory Overwood, one of the Seam girls Prim hangs out with at school. Her family’s bigger than ours – five kids and counting – and even poorer.

“Hi, Jory,” Prim responds, hesitation in her voice.

“How are you? We haven’t seen you in a while, with school out. We’ve missed you.”

A beaming smile cracks along Prim’s face, and I let out a breath I hadn’t even realized I was holding. Jory’s genuine, and the other girls nodding along seem genuine, too. The awkwardness dissipates and the girls start chattering away, catching Prim up on the news about their friends and classmates.

Gale’s gaze meets mine across the sheet, our smiles mirroring one another’s. _Prim will be okay._ He tilts his head to the left, raising his eyebrows in question, and I nod. We stroll away slowly, leaving Prim some time alone with her friends.

“Seems like tonight’s a good night,” Gale remarks.

I start to feel nervous. Maybe I should talk to him now, while we’re more or less alone. But then I’ll feel rushed, because the Games are about to start, and we’ll have to sit through all three hours of the broadcast…it’s better to wait. “Yeah,” I say simply.

We don’t make it too far until I catch sight of a familiar blond head in the corner of my eye. Peeta’s here, with a small group of his friends from town. I try to slip past unnoticed, but he turns his head just in time to see me. “Katniss! Hey,” he calls out, his face lighting up.

“Hi Peeta. Hey,” I add, nodding to his friends. I recognize all of them, but they’re Merchant kids. We don’t have much to say to each other. They mumble back their _hellos_ , but mostly continue with whatever conversation was going on before I stumbled upon them.

Gale stops right behind me, closer than necessary, and I shiver a little at the feeling of his fingertips skimming light as a feather over my lower back. Peeta doesn’t seem to notice. “I haven’t seen you here before,” he says curiously. “Do you normally come watch in town?”

“No, we just…thought it was a nice night, tonight,” I say lamely.

“Definitely.” Peeta nods. “I don’t come here too often, but sometimes it beats watching with my family.”

“Goddammit,” Gale interrupts loudly, staring off at something over Peeta’s head. “Vick’s talking to that _girl_ again…Catnip, I’ll be back.” He squeezes my arm and charges off, weaving his way through clusters of people.

One of Peeta’s friends – a boy with sandy brown hair named Asher, I think – steps forward and nudges him in the arm. “Hey Peet, we’re gonna go sit down.”

“Sure, I’ll be there in a minute,” he nods. Once they’re gone, he smiles at me. “So your friends call you Catnip?”

“Just Gale,” I say, though Gale pretty much encompasses the term “friends” for me. I can’t even imagine how he’d react if he heard Peeta calling me by that old nickname. “Yours call you Peet?”

“Sometimes.” He shrugs. “I like Peeta better. I feel more like a Peeta.”

“I feel more like a Katniss,” I admit, though I feel a slight twinge of guilt, as if I’m somehow betraying Gale by saying it.

“So I should rethink my plan to start calling you Kitty Kat?” Peeta laughs loudly at my sour expression. “Okay. Strictly Katniss, then.”

Just then, the lights from the Justice Building flash in warning – tonight’s broadcast of the Games is about to begin. The loud chatter around us starts to dim, the mood growing somber. Peeta sighs.

“The show must go on,” he says sardonically. “D’you want to come sit with us? We’re just over there.” He gestures to his friends, who are seated on a few blankets a short distance away.

“No, I should go back and find Prim,” I respond. “Thanks, though.”

“Alright. Well.” He pauses, then steps forward and gives me a brief, light hug. “Um. See you later.”

I don’t answer, frozen in place. Did Peeta just…hug me? I catch a glimpse of his face as he turns away – I think _he’s_ shocked by what he did, too. He hurries off towards his friends, his hands shoved deep in his pockets.

A moment later I return to my senses, spinning around and walking quickly back to the spot where I left Prim and my mother. My heart is pounding, though I can’t pinpoint why. I already knew Peeta liked me. I shouldn’t be stunned when that means he wants to…touch me. Besides, it was more of a friendly hug, over so fast that it hardly counted.

It only takes me a minute to track down my family again. Prim’s friends are gone and she’s sitting on the ground between my mother and Rory, but Gale and Vick are nowhere to be seen. I hope fervently that Gale didn’t see Peeta embrace me. If he did, he might not even be willing to listen to what I have to tell him tonight.

Rory sees me approach and scoots over so I can sit beside Prim. I settle onto the ground beside her, and she turns to look at me. “Who were you talking to?” she asks.

“No one,” I say quickly. Thankfully, the massive screen over the stage lights up and the show starts before she can press any further.

Tonight starts off with some mentor interviews. There are a few appreciative whistles from the crowd when Finnick Odair, a former victor from District 4, shows up onscreen to talk up his tributes, both of whom are still in the arena. Since he was introduced to the country in the 65th Games at the age of 14, he’s become known as the most beautiful man in Panem.  With his tanned skin and lustrous hair and cheeky grin projected onto the big screen before us, it’s certainly hard to imagine anyone who looks better.

The crowd goes quiet, however, when it’s time for Haymitch Abernathy to speak. As our only living victor, and a raging alcoholic, Haymitch is something of a joke around District 12. Just a few years ago he actually fell off the stage at the Reaping, only to vomit on Effie Trinket’s shoes when a Peacekeeper helped him back up. As a child of District 12, I’m sure there’s no worse feeling than realizing you’ve been Reaped – but realizing that Haymitch Abernathy is the only person who’s looking out for you? It’s got to be a close second.

Haymitch looks exhausted and out of place on the fancy set where the mentors are giving their interviews. It must be five, six years since the last time a District 12 tribute made it far enough to warrant a top ten interview.

“Astrid? Yeah. She’s…she’s a fighter. Always fighting.” He leans forward a little as the voice of the interviewer offscreen asks him to clarify: _How is Astrid a fighter?_ There’s a long stretch of silence, and Haymitch rubs a hand over his face wearily.

“Well, you know. She’s out there, taking it day by day. That’s our strategy. Day by day.”

I can see my mother shaking her head sadly on the other side of Prim, who is staring up at the screen with a slight frown on her face. Despite his words, it’s painfully clear that there is no _real_ strategy for Astrid. They may not match the words he’s speaking, but Haymitch’s eyes say it all: he’s just as defeated this year as he has been for the last twenty-odd years. Sometimes a tribute manages to cling to life a little longer than the others; it’s no reason to get your hopes up.

“He’s not even trying,” Prim murmurs.

When Haymitch is done, the cameras cut to a splitscreen with all ten remaining tributes. My eyes focus immediately on the lower right-hand corner, where Astrid is quietly picking berries in a secluded part of the forest. But after just a few seconds, the full screen cuts to a view of the Careers. Again.

The Games always start to narrow their focus on the Careers around this time. Ostensibly it’s because they’re the group that’s most likely to produce a winner, but I can’t help but wonder if the tactic is self-fulfilling, encouraging sponsors to boost their support simply because they see them onscreen the most.

They’re also the most likely to produce the best drama, though. They fight. They hunt the other kids. Once in a while a pair will sneak off and have sex; perfunctory, emotionless sex, like two squirrels mating in the woods. It’s uncomfortable to watch, not titillating, but the cameras don’t acknowledge how awkward and wrong it is, zooming in to the places where their bodies join, where dirty, sallow skin slips against skin.

Tonight we’re treated to an argument brewing between the tributes from District 2. According to the commentary from Claudius Templesmith, it’s some kind of ongoing conflict between them, but I tend to zone out when the Careers are onscreen, so I can’t really follow the conversation. The tributes from the Career districts are always so interchangeable – athletic, well-fed 17- and 18-year-olds with shiny hair and cruel smiles.

My gaze drifts away from the screen, over to the right, and I can just barely make out Peeta sitting cross-legged on a picnic blanket with his friends. The others sit with their chins tilted up, watching the screen, but Peeta’s looking down at his hands. It reminds me of when we watched the bloodbath together, how he’d focused on his hands then, too.

After awhile I start to feel tired, and move away from the others to lay down, resting my head on my arm. Gale reappears with Vick, both of them looking annoyed. “Hey,” Gale greets me softly, sitting down just behind me on our sheet.

“Hey. Everything okay?”

Gale sighs. “It’s fine.” His knuckles run lightly over my hair. “Vick’s just being stupid.”

“Mmm.”

“You tired?” I nod heavily. “You should go to sleep,” he murmurs, stroking my hair in earnest now. I don’t know what’s made him so bold tonight, but I’m too sleepy to think about it much. “I’ll wake you up if anything important happens.”

“M’kay,” I agree, and drift off to the feel of Gale’s fingers running gently through my hair.

\---

I don’t know how much time passes, but I’m woken by Gale’s fingers digging into my skin in a sudden, tight grip around my arm. I roll onto my back, looking up at him. “Ow. What –?”

“The Career from 1,” he says tersely, shaking his head. I follow his gaze up to the screen and gasp.

The boy from District 1 – named Stunner, I think – is panting heavily, his eyes wild, a shock of blood sprayed across his face. I don’t understand, until they show what’s laying before him. It’s the body of the girl from District 2. And her head’s been nearly severed from her neck.

Someone retches in the darkness behind me. I’m afraid I might vomit myself. I slap my hands over my eyes and turn away, turn into Gale, who wraps his arm around me. “What happened?” I choke out.

“He kept telling the girl and the guy who were arguing to shut up and then he picked up this axe out of nowhere and just – snapped,” Gale says, sounding shaken. “The boy –“ He stops himself, shuddering slightly. It must have been gruesome if Gale can’t even bring himself to tell me.

“A-Astrid?” I whisper.

“She’s okay. She wasn’t there.” He pauses. “She should be okay tonight. I think this is exciting enough to satisfy them.”

I start to look back, but Gale rests his hand on the side of my head, turning it gently away. “Don’t look yet.”

“Okay,” I say, taking a deep breath to calm myself. “Okay.”

\---

The walk home is quiet, each of us deep in our own thoughts. We’re all relieved that Astrid is alive, but tonight’s events were so unsettling that it’s hard – wrong, even – to be cheery about it. And that boy with that axe…that axe could come down on anyone next.

An image of the girl from District 2 flashes into my mind without warning. Empty eyes, open mouth, hair wet with blood. My stomach churns uncomfortably and I try to think of anything else. My mind settles on cheese buns, but that leads to the strange encounter with Peeta tonight, that split second when his warm arms were wrapped around me, and that leads to –

“Oh!” I blurt out loud. Somewhere between Peeta’s hug and the horror of tonight’s broadcast, I’d completely forgotten about the conversation I need to have with Gale. I jog ahead a few steps to catch up with him.

“Hey,” I say quietly. “Do you think you could walk us home?”

He looks confused – there’s no danger in my mother, Prim and I walking home together – but he nods. “Of course.” We wave goodbye to Rory and Vick once we reach the fork in the road, and peel away to the right.

“I just need to talk to Gale for a second,” I tell Mother and Prim once we reach the house. “Finalize some hunting plans.” Mother just nods, but Prim gives me an odd look before shutting the front door behind her.

“I didn’t know we had hunting plans,” Gale says with a smirk. “I have work for the next four days straight.” But he doesn’t move to leave; instead he steps closer.

“No plans,” I agree, trying to sound light. But the shock of what happened in the arena tonight still hasn’t really worn off, and my words come out flat. This is going to be more difficult than I’d thought.

Gale bends his head towards mine just slightly. “What’s going on, Catnip? You’re acting…different.”

My heart hammers wildly in my chest as I steel my resolve. “I…yes,” I say, fighting to keep the tremor out of my voice. “I want to do this.”

Gale stares down at me. “Do what?”

I search for the right words. “Um…us. I want to be an us.”

Gale doesn’t react for what feels like forever. My stomach sinks in embarrassment – maybe he doesn’t want me anymore. And who could blame him, after all the fights we’ve had in the last few weeks?

“You want…oh my god,” he finally says, and his arms are wrapped tight around me before I can even blink. “Catnip,” he murmurs against me, placing a kiss where his lips rest on my hair.

I lift my arms to embrace him back, and we stand like that, entwined outside my front door, for a long, long time. Eventually he pulls away, running his hands over my shoulders, my arms, the slight indent of my waist.

“I can’t believe it,” he says, a goofy grin spreading across his face. I can’t help the smile that spreads across mine in return. He looks _happy_ , for the first time in weeks _._

“I don’t have a ring for you,” he adds regretfully, his hands coming to rest on my hips. “I’m going to be paying off that bracelet for Vick for months.”

“Ring?” I repeat, not understanding.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, dipping his head down to nuzzle at my ear. “You know, your engagement ring.”

“Oh.” I stiffen. “Gale, that’s…I wasn’t talking about marriage.”

He pulls away slightly. “Oh.”

“I mean – I was serious, before. I don’t want to get married. Maybe never, and at least not anytime soon.”

Gale looks down to where his hands rest on my torso, his long fingers splayed out across my hipbones. “So what do you want?”

I breathe out shakily. “Just…you?”

This time he doesn’t wait. Gale bends down and kisses me hard, the force of his lips taking me by surprise.

We’ve kissed before, but in the past it was tentative, a question. Now it’s an answer. “Okay,” he murmurs into my mouth, backing me up against the wall beside the door. “I can live with that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many things to say!
> 
> 1\. As always, thank you for your reviews and kudos! They're truly awesome.
> 
> 2\. Apologies for updating a whole week late. Life's been pretty busy lately, and it looks like it's going to be that way through the next month or so, so I may not be updating quite as regularly until we get through September/October.
> 
> 3\. A lot of people seem concerned that Katniss is showing interest in Gale. Well, the summary does state "Katniss/Gale" along with "Katniss/Peeta", so yeah, there's going to be some romance between Katniss and Gale - just as there was in the book series. I don't like to explicitly state where a fic is going to end up...but just glance at the HG story summaries on my author page and you might feel reassured about where my loyalties lie. ;)
> 
> 4\. It came to my attention that I have the ages of the Hawthorne bros totally mixed up from canon. Whoops! So just to clear that up, in this story Vick is 16 or 17 and Rory is 14. Vick is not a super-suave 12 year old capable of seducing Merchant girls.
> 
> 5\. I don't love how this chapter turned out, but I spent a lot of time on it so...I'm letting it out into the world now. I am excited about the next chapter though! There's some interesting conversations with Prim and Peeta coming up. And also more of Katniss' thoughts on why exactly she's doing what she's doing.


	10. ten

I’m surprised to find Prim still awake when I finally tiptoe inside. She shuts the small book in her lap and looks at me evenly. “How did the planning go?”

I turn away so she can’t see me blush, but I have to stifle a gasp when I see what a mess my hair has become in the mirror. My lips are red and plump, my cheeks flushed. I look like a different person. “Um, it was good,” I say, hastily pulling my hair out of its braid.

“Yeah, I bet.”

I slip out of my clothes and into a nightshirt, joining her on the bed. She looks at me expectantly, and I frown. “What?”

“Katniss. I’m fourteen. I know what you were doing out there.” Her lips curve up into a knowing smile. “Are you and Gale _together_?”

I sigh, dropping my head back against the headboard. I feel awkward talking about this with Prim, but I suppose this is better than having to make some sort of announcement. “We…yes. We are together.”

Prim waits for me to elaborate, her smile faltering when I don’t. “You don’t sound very excited about it.”

“No, it’s good,” I assure her. “I’m just tired.”

Prim nods slowly. “I saw you hugging Peeta Mellark tonight,” she says, a hint of accusation in her tone.

Great.

“ _I_ wasn’t hugging Peeta,” I correct her. “He hugged me. It’s not…he’s just really friendly.”

“Peeta’s nice,” she agrees. “I don’t know if he’s _that_ nice, though.” She eyes me thoughtfully. “Do you think he likes you?”

I hesitate just a second too long, and Prim’s eyes widen. “Katniss! He does!” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Did he tell you? Does Gale know?”

“No, he didn’t tell me, and no, Gale doesn’t know. Because there’s nothing _to_ know.” I look at her meaningfully. I reach over and tap lightly on the book in her lap, eager to change the subject. “What’s that?”

“Oh.” Prim frowns slightly, her mood turned suddenly somber. “My journal.”

“I didn’t know you had a journal.” For some reason, it bothers me that I didn’t know – though of all Prim’s secrets, a journal isn’t really worth getting worked up about.

She smiles slightly. “I kept it hidden in Buttercup’s bed,” she admits, referring to the pile of blankets in the corner of the room that her ugly orange cat sleeps on. I can’t help but laugh.

“That’s smart. The one place I’d never look.” A yawn overtakes me, and I pull the sheets up to crawl underneath them. “Well, don’t worry, you can keep writing. I’m going to sleep.”

Prim sighs, running her fingers over the worn leather cover. “I’m not writing. I’m…remembering. Things about Astrid.” She pauses, picking at a cracker in the leather with her fingernail. “Now that she’s in the top eight, I’ll have to talk about her to everyone.”

 _The top eight._ There was so much going on tonight that I’d completely forgotten. Things have been quiet since the day those Capital reporters showed up on our doorstep, but this is different. A top eight interview is official. Prim can’t hide behind the window curtains this time.

“I don’t want to tell them about her, Katniss,” Prim says miserably, in a little voice that breaks my heart. “I don’t want them to know her. They don’t _deserve_ to. They think she’s just this…girl.”

I sit up and wrap my arm around her, resting my chin on the top of her head. “I know.” I rub my hand up and down her back, hoping it will soothe her. “Would it help if…you told _me_ about her first?” I ask hesitantly.

Prim pulls away and pulls a handkerchief from her pocket to wipe at her nose. “You want to know about Astrid?”

I nod. More than anything, I want to know about the girl who was special enough to capture my sister’s heart. The girl whose death could break her. “I do, yeah.”

“Okay,” she agrees quietly.

Prim tells me about Astrid’s favorite color (purple), her favorite food (a sweet potato casserole that her mother only makes on special occasions), her favorite class in school (math, and she wants to manage the books for her parents’ flower shop when she’s older.) She tells me about the way Astrid’s freckles grow darker in the summertime, how they fade away during the cold winter months. She tells me about Astrid’s silly sense of humor, how they’d whisper puns to one another during science class (Prim hadn’t lied; they really were partners this year in school.)

Her cheeks turn pink when she describes their first kiss, in the art room at school, after everyone else had left for the day. They were both so nervous that they were shaking, Prim says, and she’d been so afraid to open her eyes when Astrid had pulled away. But she had opened them eventually, and found dark brown eyes staring back at her, soft, sweet, welcoming.

When she’s done, I know without a doubt that my sister is in love. And I think she knows it, too.

\---

I feel anxious on my walk to the bakery the next morning. Should I tell Peeta I’m with Gale now? No; it would probably seem strange, coming out of nowhere, since he doesn’t know that Brody told me about his crush. But what if he tries to hug me again? Would it even be _wrong_ for him to hug me, if we were only friends and he knew I had a boyfriend anyway?

Peeta is already outside feeding the pigs when I reach the bakery. He stands up quickly when he sees me coming, sloshing water from the pail he’s holding onto his pants. He curses softly. “Good morning,” he calls out, swatting at his wet leg.

“Hi,” I answer, stopping by the edge of the pig pen. “Do you need help?”

“Nah, we’re just about done here,” he says easily, leaning down to pat one of the pigs on the rump. “Thanks, though. How was your night?”

I think of the brief seconds I’d spent pressed against Peeta’s broad chest. The dead tribute from District 2, and the bright red blood splattered across the face of her killer. Gale’s mouth hot and insistent against mine, his fingers catching in my hair, his hands skimming down my sides. “It was fine,” I say, though _overwhelming_ might be the more accurate word. I step back as he opens the gate to the pen and walks through, latching it carefully behind him. “What about you?”

Peeta sighs as he drops the water pail beside the back steps. “It was okay,” he says, holding the door open for me. I nod in thanks as I enter the kitchen. “I couldn’t get the thought of those District 2 kids out of my mind,” he adds quietly.

“Me neither,” I admit, shivering a little despite the heat of the ovens.

“How was everything with Prim?”

“It was good,” I say, watching as Peeta flicks a hand towel off of a ball of dough, punching the dough down with his fists to release the air. A little puff of flour bursts into the air as he flips the dough over to knead the other side. “She’s got to do a top eight interview soon, though.”

Peeta pauses, turning towards me, leaning his hip against the table. “Wow, top eight already. I didn’t even realize. Is she nervous?”

“Yeah, not terribly, though.” I shrug. “We practiced for it last night.”

He smiles. “You’re a good sister,” he says, and I have to hold back a snort. If only he knew how useless I’ve been when it comes to Prim’s emotional whirlwind of the past few weeks. Nonetheless, it’s a nice thing for him to say – a nice thing for me to hear – and a pleasant warmth spreads through me.

“Thanks.” I shift towards the door to the front. “Well, I guess I –“

“D’you want to eat lunch with me today?” he interrupts. A flush creeps up his neck. “I mean – Brody’s not feeling well today but I already made two sandwiches this morning. I wouldn’t want to waste one,” he finishes quickly.

“Oh – okay,” I agree, startled. It’s just lunch. Not much can happen when you’re sitting around eating sandwiches. And if things get…awkward, I can just explain about Gale and I. Simple.

“Okay.” He turns back to the dough on the table, but I catch a glimpse of the wide grin that’s spread across his face. “Great. Just…let me know when you’re ready.”

\---

It’s an unusually busy morning, and it goes by so fast I hardly have time to think about anything but muffins and cookies and baguettes. But by noon the flow of customers has slowed to a trickle, and I wander into the kitchen, my stomach grumbling. Peeta’s standing by the television in the back, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Did something happen?” I demand, feeling a sudden panic. Peeta doesn’t normally pay much attention to the Games down here.

He turns and shakes his head quickly when he sees my face. “No, no,” he says. “Everything’s fine. I’m just a little bored back here by myself. Brody’s sick, Dad’s picking up a shipment of supplies, you’re busy with customers.”

“Oh…sorry.”

“No, I didn’t mean to…” Peeta trails off. “You’re doing a great job out there. I know my dad’s very happy with you. Except he misses the squirrels,” he jokes. I smile; to be honest, I miss them, too. “Are you hungry?”

I nod, and he smiles back, untying his apron. “Okay, hang on a sec and I’ll go grab us lunch.”

Just as Peeta disappears into another room, the bell rings out front. I sigh heavily, trudging towards the swinging door. “Just a moment!” I call out, unsure if they can even hear me.

But I’m shocked to find that it’s not a customer – it’s Gale, standing in the middle of the bakery in his mining uniform, his messy black hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. He grins when he sees me.

I stand frozen in the doorway. “What are you doing here?”

His smile falls a little. “I wanted to come see you,” he says, stepping up to the counter. “Is that okay?”

“I…I guess so,” I say, moving forward. He leans over the counter and plants a brief kiss on my lips. “Aren’t you going to get in trouble? Being away from work?”

Gale shrugs. “I get thirty minutes for lunch to spend as I please.” He reaches out and toys with the end of my braid. “And I’m pleased to spend it with you.”

“The mines are at least ten minutes away,” I protest. “You barely have time to stop here.” I know Gale thinks he’s being romantic, but this is impractical – dangerous, even. He could be punished if he doesn’t make it back to the mines on time.

Before he can answer, my name rings out from the kitchen behind us. “Katniss?” Peeta pushes through the swinging door, two sandwiches wrapped in paper in his hands, a bottle of milk tucked under his arm. “Oh. Hi,” he nods at Gale.

“Hey,” Gale nods back.

Peeta looks between Gale and I. “Are you here to pick up some bread?” he asks, clearly unsure of what he’s stumbled upon.

“I’m just here to see my girl,” Gale responds casually, tilting his head towards me.

“Oh.” Peeta pauses. “Well, here you go, Katniss,” he says, handing me one of the sandwiches. “It’s chicken with tomatoes and spinach.” He nods again at Gale. “See you later.” He disappears back into the kitchen.

“Thanks,” I whisper, though he’s already gone.

Gale eyes the sandwich in my hand suspiciously. “Did he just make that for you?”

“No, it was supposed to be for his brother,” I say. “But he’s sick.” Though now that Gale mentions it, it does seem a bit odd that Peeta would make their lunches so early in the morning when he only has to climb a few stairs to use his regular kitchen.

“Sure.” Gale looks unconvinced, and he folds his arms over his chest. “Well, this was clearly a bad idea, so I’m just going to go.”

“Gale, wait.” I rush around the counter and tug his hand away from the crook of his arm, holding it in my own. “It was sweet of you to come. I just…I worry. I don’t want you getting in trouble just because of me.”

He sighs, clasping my hand between both of his. “I hate that I never get to see you. I’m always at the mines, you’re always here…we don’t even have every Sunday anymore.”

“I know.” I shrug. This is how our lives work; there’s no point in getting worked up about it. “Maybe you can come over for dinner sometime this week?”

Gale smiles a little, bringing my hand to his lips for a small kiss. “Okay,” he says. “Maybe after dinner we can go for a little walk…” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, and I blush, thinking back to last night.

“Maybe,” I tell him, pulling my hand away. “Now get back to work. I don’t want you to be late.”

“Yes ma’am.” Gale pulls me in for another kiss – it seems like he just can’t get enough of kissing me, though I’m nearly certain that I’m terrible at it – and squeezes my hand before turning to leave.

Once he’s gone I wander back to the counter, where my sandwich is still sitting in its paper wrapper. I pick it up and walk into the kitchen. “Peeta?”

I hear the scrape of a chair moving against the tiled floor, and Peeta’s head pops out from the doorway of his father’s office. “Hey.”

I step tentatively towards him. “Can I still eat with you?”

“Sure.” I avoid his eyes, but I can feel him watching me as I enter the office, settling into a chair across from where he sits at his father’s desk. “I thought you’d be eating with Gale.”

“He didn’t have time,” I explain, unwrapping the sandwich. “He only gets thirty minutes for lunch.”

“Oh.”

We eat in silence for a few minutes, and I instantly regret coming back here. Somehow I’d believed that once Peeta learned I had a boyfriend, it would be easier to be around him. He’d understand that we weren’t going to date, and we could just be friends. But if this new tension is any indication, I’d been horribly, terribly wrong.

“I didn’t realize you and Gale were dating,” Peeta says carefully, breaking the silence, his fingers picking at a bit of leftover crust.

I swallow uncomfortably, my mouth suddenly dry. “We just started,” I say, keeping my eyes trained on the food in my lap.  

Peeta nods. “Cool. I mean…you two were always together in school and stuff, so it’s not really surprising.”

“Yeah.” I pray for Mr. Mellark to walk in, for the bell to ring out front… _anything_ to end this conversation.

“Well, I’m sorry if I did anything that seemed inappropriate in the last couple weeks,” he says, glancing up to meet my eyes.

I shake my head quickly. “No, I…I don’t even know what you mean.”

“Nothing. Nevermind. I don’t know.” He smiles weakly, brushing the crumbs from his sandwich off the desktop and into his palm as he stands. “I’ve gotta get back to work, but you’re welcome to eat in here.”

“That’s okay.” I’d feel weird, sitting in the office by myself. “I can finish out there.” Peeta nods and waits for me to leave before shutting the door behind us. “Thanks, by the way. For lunch. It’s really good.” I wave what’s left of my sandwich in the air half-heartedly.

Peeta smiles again, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Sure. Anytime.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. Well, first off, I am sorry it took me 3 weeks to get this updated, because it's lame that it took me so long to write what's not even a very long chapter. In addition to being busy, I got swept up writing a oneshot for the Prompts in Panem challenge on Tumblr (it's called Science vs. Romance, it's K/P set in the True Blood universe, and it features sexy!vampire!Peeta. It was a lot of fun to write!) 
> 
> BUT, I am back on track with this one, and the next update won't take 3 weeks. I hope you enjoy! And most importantly, THANK YOU for the wonderful comments.


	11. eleven

I’m greeted with the strangest sight in the world when I arrive home that afternoon: Effie Trinket. Surrounded by lights and cameras. In my living room.

The front door creaks loudly as I let it fall shut behind me, and Effie whips her head towards me, her pink wig sliding dangerously on her head. “We are in the _middle_ of a _very_ important interview!” she calls loudly, adjusting the wig with both hands. “Who are you?”

“That’s my sister,” Prim says quickly. She’s seated on one of our kitchen chairs, which has been moved into the living room and placed in front of the open back door. Judging by the angle of the camera, they’re trying to get the trees outside in the background. Our mother stands quietly off to the side, out of the camera’s view.

Prim is wearing the same outfit she wore to the last Reaping, a pretty white button-down shirt tucked into a faded brown skirt; her eyes are rimmed in gold and her pale cheeks are painted a soft pink. For a Capitol makeup job, it’s actually fairly restrained.

“She lives here. She didn’t know you were coming today,” Prim adds, nervously twisting her hands in her lap, and I notice that her nails have been painted a rosy shade of pink.

“Well, she’s interrupted a _lovely_ take, and now we’ll have to do it _all_ over again.” Effie’s eyes, buried beneath what I can only assume is at least a quarter-pound of green eye makeup, rake over me, clearly disapproving. I’m sweating a little from the walk home, and the fine hairs around my temple are frizzed out of my braid. I definitely don’t belong on camera. I glare back at her.

Effie shakes her head and turns back to my sister. “Primrose, do you think you can give us that answer one more time, in just the same way? It was so charming how your eyes teared up at the end.”

Prim looks bewildered as she nods her head. “I – I’ll try,” she says.

“Fabulous. And you.” Effie points a long, electric blue fingernail in my direction. “Don’t move a muscle, don’t make a sound.” I narrow my eyes in response, but otherwise obey.

The room is silent as Prim speaks, but even I can tell that she’s lost whatever spontaneity there was in her original answer – her words sound stilted, like she’s trying to repeat a monologue from memory. Effie sighs heavily when Prim is done, and waves her hand towards the cameras. “That will have to do. We’re done. Thank you, everyone.”

Prim makes a beeline for the bathroom, most likely to wash the makeup off her face, and the cameramen begin to dismantle the odd poles and lamps they’d set up in the living room. Effie watches them imperiously from the edge of the room. She must be itching to get out of our cramped, old-fashioned home – our cramped, old-fashioned district – and back to the luxurious lifestyle she’s no doubt accustomed to.

Mother murmurs something about checking on the goat outside – nothing but an excuse to leave, I’m sure – and I’m left alone with the crew from the Capitol. I watch them silently, suspiciously, the only sound the snaps and clicks of the camera equipment folding together.

Effie coughs delicately, and my eyes snap towards her. “I’m so thrilled that a District 12 Tribute’s finally made it to the top eight. Your sister’s interview was just darling.” Her high-pitched Capitol accent sounds so out of place in our little house in the Seam, her inflection dipping and bobbing like a bird diving for fish. “Unpolished, but some of the sponsors love that. I’d be surprised if they weren’t trying to send _her_ a gift or two once this piece airs.” She smiles brilliantly, and from the way she’s looking at me, it seems she expects me to do the same.

A deep, heated anger spreads through my chest. This is all so inconsequential to someone like Effie Trinket. To Effie, Prim’s just a sad little District 12 ruffian, slogging through the dreary District 12 days, wishing desperately for some of the Capitol’s good fortune to float down into her outstretched hands like a Tribute’s silver parachute.

“Will they send her Astrid?” I say without thinking.

Effie’s smile falls immediately, and she’s saved from having to answer when one of the cameramen clears his throat loudly. “We’re all packed up here,” he says gruffly, gesturing to the shiny black bags where the camera equipment is stored.

The men leave first, and Effie pauses by the door, looking back at me. I tense. She may be an idiot, but as an escort from the Capitol, Effie’s probably the most powerful person in District 12 right now. One word, and she could have me punished for insolence, for slander against the Capitol, for anything, really – Cray would surely take her word over mine.

“It is my _job_ to help Astrid get sponsors,” she says slowly, locking eyes with me. Her voice is a full octave lower than the trill she’d used to interview Prim. “That is the purpose of an interview. You’d do well to remember that, if it’s ever your sister out there.”

Before I can react, she steps daintily through the doorway and shuts the door with a firm click behind her.

\---

Prim’s taking a long, long time to wash off her makeup, so I knock on the bathroom door gently and ask if she needs help. “Come in,” her voice carries through the door quietly.

She’s seated on the edge of our bathtub, elbows on her knees, head in her hands. Her makeup is untouched.

Prim tilts her head up to look at me. “I don’t know if…I don’t know,” she sighs. I say nothing, joining her on the edge of the tub, giving her time to gather her thoughts. “I don’t know if I did enough,” she finally says.

“Effie Trinket said you did great,” I say, trying to be encouraging. “She said you’ll definitely help Astrid get sponsors.”

“I hope so.” She pauses. “The questions weren’t as bad as I expected.”

“No?”

Prim shakes her head. “They were kind of nice. Effie asked me how we met and what I liked about her. There were none of the…” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Weird sex questions.”

My stomach turns at the thought. Just as the Capitol doesn’t shy away from any sex that happens in the arena, they pry as deeply as they can into the Tributes’ private lives back home. For some Tributes – particularly the older ones, and the ones from the Career districts – that means a lot of questions about sex. Prim’s only fourteen, and from what I can tell her relationship with Astrid was relatively chaste, but that’s typically not an obstacle for the Capitol. When they want scandal, they find scandal – or they make it up.

“Effie was…different from how I expected,” Prim says.

I look at her in surprise. Despite the brevity of our encounter, Effie was _exactly_ how I would have pictured her – except for those last few moments, maybe.

“I mean, she was just like how we see her at the Reaping,” Prim continues thoughtfully. “But I felt like she actually wanted to help. Like she actually cared what happens to Astrid.”

“She just wants a promotion or something,” I mutter, pushing away the little nugget of doubt that Prim’s words had pushed into my brain. “They think it’s glamorous to escort a Victor.”

“Mmm. Maybe,” Prim murmurs, but she doesn’t seem convinced. It’s one of the things I love about her – she always holds out hope for the good in people. I might have been like that, once, but in the years since my father died, nearly everyone proved me wrong.

Prim sighs and boosts herself onto her feet. “I’ve got to wash this off,” she says, examining her face in the small mirror over the sink. A little smile tugs at her lips. “I kind of like it, though.”

“Oh _noooo,_ ” I groan in exaggeration, burying my face in my hands. “Prim. Don’t tell me Effie Trinket’s converted you.”

She giggles and turns on the faucet. “ _No._ ” She takes one last look at her reflection before bending down to splash water on her face. “I might need to start wearing blush, though.”

\---

Dinner that night is quiet, which makes it feel even more awkward when I ask my mother if Gale can join us for supper on Sunday.

“Of course,” she says, taking a long sip of water from her glass. She eyes me carefully. “Any particular reason why?”

I refuse to look at Prim, though I can feel her eyes on me and I know she’s bursting to tell Mother the news. “No,” I say quickly.

Prim gasps from beside me. “Kat _niss_ ,” she hisses, loud enough for Mother to hear.

I roll my eyes. “Fine. It’s because we’re…he’s…”

“Her boyfriend,” Prim supplies helpfully. “He’s her boyfriend.”

“Yeah,” I finish lamely. “That.”

Mother doesn’t smile all that often – she isn’t now – but her mouth twitches and she looks amused. “And when did thishappen?”

“The night after we watched the Games in the town square. They were kissing after we went to bed,” Prim answers for me. Part of me is pleased that she’s acting her age again – playing the part of the annoying little sister _incredibly_ well – but a bigger part of me is just, well, annoyed. I glare at her, but she only shrugs. “It’s true.”

“Well, congratulations,” Mother says, giving me a warm look across the table. I blush and look down at my soup bowl. “You and Gale have been friends for such a long time.”

“It’s not a big deal,” I grumble.

“Did you tell Peeta yet?” Prim asks. I narrow my eyes at her. Not this again.

“Why would she tell Peeta?” Mother asks.

“He has a crush on her,” Prim explains.

Mother’s eyes widen. “Oh. Very interesting.”

“No he doesn’t,” I lie through my teeth.

“You even said it yourself! He hugged her in the square the other night,” she tells Mother smugly, as if a five-second hug is ultimate proof of Peeta’s undying love for me. Though when you’re fourteen years old, I suppose it kind of is.

“Can we stop talking about this? I don’t want to talk about this,” I say loudly.

“Alright – Prim, leave your sister alone,” Mother scolds. “Katniss has got enough on her plate with all these boys falling all over her.” She winks at Prim, who bursts into giggles.

I grab my bowl and slurp down the remaining soup, letting it fall back to the table with a clatter. “I’m going out,” I huff, the sound of their laughter chasing me out the door.

\---

Desperate to escape my family’s teasing, I hadn’t thought about where I actually wanted to go, so I wind up on the familiar route to the Hawthorne’s house. Gale opens the door, looking tired, but his face brightens when he realizes it’s me.

“Hey,” he says, stepping aside to let me in. “I didn’t think I’d see you again today.” He bends down to kiss me, and I let him, at least until his hands start to wander south of my waist. We are in his family’s living room, after all.

“I just came to see if you wanted to come for dinner on Sunday,” I tell him, stepping back a bit.

“Definitely.” He nods, smiling. “That would be great.”

“Is that Katniss I hear?” Gale’s mother Hazelle calls from another room. Her head pokes out from the doorway of the bedroom she shares with Posy, and she gives me a warm smile. “Hi, Katniss.”

“Hi Hazelle,” I reply, giving her a little wave.

“How’s Prim doing?” she asks, her brow knitted in concern.

“She’s okay,” I say, unsure how to answer. Tonight she’d seemed almost like her old self – but who knows how she’ll feel just days, or even hours, from now. It all depends on how the Games go.

“Give her a hug from me.” Hazelle pauses to look between Gale and I, raising her eyebrows. “I heard you two have some big news to share.”

“Mom,” Gale warns her, and she laughs.

“Fine. I’ll leave you kids alone.” Hazelle disappears back into the bedroom, shutting the door behind her. Abruptly, it opens again and her voice carries out: “I’m just so happy for the two of you!”

Gale rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “She’s _very_ excited about us,” he says. I smile a little and nod, but I’m not sure how I feel about it. I care about Gale’s family very much, almost as much as my own, but it almost feels like Hazelle is prepared to fold me into their family already – and _I’m_ not ready for that. At all.

“So…Vick and Rory just took Posy out for a walk,” Gale says casually. He tilts his head towards the other bedroom, the one he shares with his brothers. “Do you want to…?”

“Um, I actually have to get home,” I say apologetically. His face falls and I feel bad – but what if Vick and Rory walked in on us kissing? Or what if Hazelle heard something through the walls? I’d never recover from the embarrassment. “I mean, I do want to,” I assure him, taking his hand. “I just, you know. I have to watch out for Prim.”

Gale nods, looking glum, but he squeezes my hand back. “I understand. You’re a good sister,” he says, and I think of Peeta telling me the same thing this morning. I’m not sure why these boys think I’m such a wonderful sibling – especially Gale, who’s breaking his back at work just to pay off his younger brother’s debt – but I smile and tell him, “Thanks.”

I pull open the front door and step outside, and Gale follows me, leaning in the doorway. “So Sunday…we’ll meet up in the morning, catch something for your mom to cook for dinner?”

“I might have to work,” I say, frowning. “I’ll let you know?”

“Okay.” He steps forward and pulls me in for a goodbye kiss, but I break away before it gets too involved and he tries to convince me to stay again. “Goodnight, Catnip.”

“Goodnight.” I can feel Gale’s eyes on me as I walk down the dirt path from his front door, but I don’t look back.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello! Thank you very much for all your reviews and kudos! This chapter was definitely more family/Prim-focused, but I know you're all waiting for more Peeta, too, so we'll be getting back to the bakery in the next chapter. :)


	12. twelve

“How’s Gale?” Prim asks the second I walk through the front door. She’s stretched out on the sofa, watching the Games.

I force my eyes away from the television and narrow them suspiciously at Prim. “Who says I was at Gale’s?”

She shrugs. “Where were you then?”

“At Gale’s,” I grumble, moving to sit beside her.

“Aha,” she says with a triumphant grin. I roll my eyes in response, bumping her lightly with my elbow.

A crack of thunder draws my attention back to the tv screen. It’s raining in the arena, and the cameras are focused on a pair of Careers, flirting beneath the makeshift shelter they’ve created out of a tarp.

They’re the ones who escaped from Stunner, the boy with the axe, I realize with a start. For a moment I can’t believe they’re behaving like this – teasing, giggling, _normal_ – so soon after the brutal deaths of the boy and girl from 2. But I remember quickly who these people are: volunteers. They _want_ to be here. The tributes from District 2 weren’t their friends; they were their allies, and that means something very different inside the arena.

“I don’t know why you’re so secretive about it,” she says more seriously. “Everyone saw it coming.”

I frown. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you only hang out with each other…and he’s so handsome…and it’s pretty obvious he liked _you_ , at least.” Prim shrugs. “It just seemed kind of inevitable.”

I don’t know why it bothers me – hadn’t I had similar thoughts myself? – but her words rankle nonetheless. I guess it’s the implication that others knew something about me that I didn’t even know myself. That they were thinking, _talking_ , about Gale and me.

“It’s nobody’s business,” I say quietly.

Normally I’d follow that up with some teasing – _not even you, you nosy little duck_ – but right now I’m exhausted, and more than a little anxious about how quickly things are progressing with Gale. I don’t want to talk or even think about it right now – thankfully, Prim seems to sense this, because she changes the subject.

“Effie Trinket told me they’re airing the interviews Saturday night,” she says, staring back at the screen.

“That’s quick.” It’s two days from now. I brush a stray piece of hair away from her temple. “Are you nervous?”

“No.” She shakes her head a little. “I did what I could. Hopefully it’s enough.”

Her answer surprises me. Isn’t this the same girl who couldn’t bear to glance away from the television for even a second, just a week ago?

 _It’s not_ , I realize abruptly. Prim’s not the same. She’ll never be the same. This is what the Games do to us: pull us apart so we’re forced to stitch ourselves back together, in whatever way we can. The first time a person you know…a person you love…is reaped, things change. You’re never as whole as you were before you reached Reaping age.

“They’ll love it,” I say gently. “She’ll get so many sponsors, they’ll be turning them away.”

“She could still come home, right?” Prim’s words are so soft I’m not even sure they were meant for me to hear. “She could.”

But though she’s quiet, I can still detect something I’ve never heard before in Prim’s voice: resignation.

\---

Brody’s still sick, according to Peeta, so it’s just the two of us and Mr. Mellark in the kitchens the next morning. I’m a terrible substitute for Brody’s steady hands and years of experience. They must spend half the morning explaining which type of flour and how much yeast to use for the different kinds of bread I’m making, and I’m so slow at mixing together a batch of sugar cookies that Mr. Mellark politely asks if he can take over.

Relief washes over me when I hear footsteps heading down the stairs; maybe Brody’s feeling well enough come back and bake. But my heart nearly stops when I hear the voice – it’s female.

“Your son says he needs to have a word with you,” Mrs. Mellark says loudly, arms crossed over her chest. Mr. Mellark sighs heavily and gestures towards me.

“Katniss, can you finish dropping these cookies onto the sheet? Just a spoonful for each.” I nod quickly and hurry over to the table where he’s working, feeling his wife’s icy, hard eyes on me as I move.

Peeta’s father trudges up the stairs, but Mrs. Mellark remains by the foot of the stairs, staring at me. I keep my head ducked down, my face hot. Does she remember me? Does she know I’m the girl she caught picking through her trash all those years ago – the one who huddled beneath their apple tree, slowly dying, while she struck her youngest son across the face for trying to help?

“What is she doing back here?” she demands, addressing Peeta as though I can’t hear her. “We’re paying her to stand out front.”

“We need an extra hand while Brody’s sick,” he explains, glancing over at me from where he stands by the ovens. “She’s helping out. We put a bell out front so a customer can ring if they come in.”

“She looks like she doesn’t know what the hell she’s doing,” his mother responds flatly, and I take that particular moment to drop the spoon I’m using on the floor with a clatter. I squat down to pick up the spoon, and I stay there behind the table, taking slow, deep breaths.

After years of haggling with some of the district’s more colorful residents at the Hob, not many people intimidate me. And yet there is something about Mrs. Mellark that sets me on edge. When I look at her, all I can see is her face twisted in anger, her fingers curled into a fist, ready to fall down on the boy who saved my life.

“She’s still learning,” I hear Peeta answer, and then footsteps approaching me. I let out a long breath when I see that it’s just him, bringing over a new spoon for me to use.

“Here,” he says quietly, crouching down beside me to hand me the spoon. He smiles sadly, and when our fingers brush together he briefly squeezes a few of mine in a comforting gesture.

Unthinking, I grab his hand tightly, as if to steady myself. His eyes flash with surprise but he lets me hold on, and he squeezes my hand again. His grip is strong and warm. We balance like that for a long moment before he pulls back, straightening up to stand.

My fingers dangle in the air after him, suddenly cold.

“If she fucks anything up, it’s on you,” Mrs. Mellark says harshly, and heads back upstairs just as I rise from my spot behind the table. The word sounds jarring coming from a parent, even if it’s her; I can’t even imagine my own mother saying _fuck_ to Prim or I, no matter how angry she got.

“Okay, _Mom_ ,” Peeta says sarcastically, though not loud enough for her to hear. He looks down at me, and his eyes immediately soften. “Sorry. I know I said she doesn’t come back here often – she doesn’t, really, it’s just with Brody being sick –“

“It’s okay,” I interrupt him. “Really, it’s fine.”

“No, it’s not,” he sighs, moving away to check on the ovens again. “But it’s how she is.”

“Maybe I should leave,” I blurt out. “I mean – I don’t want to get you in trouble. If I screw up,” I clarify.

“You mean quit? No, no way. We need your help, Katniss,” he says earnestly. “She’s not going to do anything to me, anyway. She just likes to make threats.”

 _Threats._ He says it so casually that I’m not even sure how to respond. “Okay.”

I turn back to the table and stare dumbly at the bowl and the cookie sheet before me, my mind completely blank. What am I supposed to be doing here? Oh, right. Dropping the dough onto the sheet so the cookies can bake.

I complete my task mechanically, grateful that it’s something I can do without much thought. Because all I _can_ think about is the heat of Peeta’s hand, warm and steady around my own, and the fact that I didn’t want to let go.

\---

The day ends up being a busy one, and I spend most of it helping customers in the front of the store, trying to ignore the queasy feeling that’s settled in my stomach ever since Mrs. Mellark made her appearance in the kitchen this morning.

 _What is wrong with me?_ I finally took a step forward with Gale – finally made it clear to Peeta that his crush was impossible – and yet with one brush of the blond boy’s fingertips, he’s suddenly the sole focus of my mind.

It’s not as if I even _like_ Peeta in that way. We’re only friends. It’s simply the heightened emotions that seeing his mother dredged up in me; hearing her voice again took me back to those moments behind the bakery in the rain, when I was eleven years old and starving, when I had lost all hope.

Then and now, Peeta was the anchor that brought me back. Nothing more, nothing less.

Our moment in the kitchen notwithstanding, Peeta seems to realize that, too. He doesn’t visit me out behind the counter all day, and when the flow of customers thins out and I come back into the kitchen to work, he’s quiet.

All the same, it doesn’t prepare me for the next day, when a girl comes to visit him for lunch.

Violet Plumwell has bright blue eyes, honey-colored hair and a pleasant smile, the kind that puts you immediately at ease. She’s kind of the female version of Peeta, to be honest, and I’m almost certain she’s one of the pretty blonde girls I’d noticed holding his hand in the hallway over the years. She looks a little confused when she enters the storefront on Saturday afternoon, eyes searching the small room as though she might find someone other than me hiding in a corner.

“Hi, um, is Peeta here?” she greets me.

I glance back at the kitchen, where I know he’s working on decorating a birthday cake for some wealthy family in town. “Yeah. He’s working though…” I trail off, unsure what she’s here for. None of the Mellarks have had a visitor in the few weeks I’ve worked here.

“Could you tell him I’m here?” she asks hopefully. “Violet, I mean. Well – you know that. You’re Katniss, I’m Violet.” Her cheeks flush, and I can’t help but notice how charming the blush looks against her pale skin. I just look blotchy when I blush…not that it matters.

“Are you here for the birthday cake? I don’t think it’s ready.”

“Oh, no. I’m just visiting.” Violet bounces on her heels nervously. I can’t imagine what a girl like this – attractive, well-off, always surrounded by friends – has to be nervous about.

“Oh. Okay, I’ll go get him.”

Peeta’s broad back is turned towards me as I slip into the kitchen, a spot on his t-shirt growing dark with sweat just below the nape of his neck. Brody is back at work today, too, and he looks up at me curiously when I enter the room. “Peeta,” I say loudly, and he cranes his neck around to glance at me.

“Hey, what’s up,” he responds, returning his attention back to the cake on the table in front of him.

“You have a…” I fall silent as I come closer and see the cake. “That’s beautiful,” I say abruptly, and it is: the top of the cake looks like it’s bursting with flowers, orange and blue and green and purple, sunflowers and roses and tulips and daisies.

He smiles, looking pleased. “Thanks. I’ve been working on it all morning. Did you need something?”

I shake my head. “No, there’s just someone here to see you.”

“Oh. Violet?” He perks up at my nod. “Wow, I lost track of time. Thanks.”

I linger behind as Peeta strides out front to greet her, my eyes wandering over his cake. It’s incredible, really, that something so delicate and pretty can come from hands so large and strong.

“How are you today, Katniss?” I startle at Brody’s voice, carrying from across the room. I’d forgotten he was even here, and I blink rapidly in embarrassment, hoping he didn’t notice me ogling the cake.

“I’m good,” I say neutrally. “How are you?”

“Been better.” He sniffs loudly, and my nose wrinkles involuntarily; from the sound of things, Brody probably shouldn’t be preparing food quite yet. Luckily it seems he’s on dish duty again – plenty of soap and water. “But that’s all? Just good? Not great?”

I eye him warily. “Why would I be great?”

“I don’t know, young love? New relationships?” He lets it sink in for a moment, then continues. “I asked you to let him down easy, Katniss, not stomp all over his heart.”

“I didn’t stomp on anyone’s heart,” I snap defensively. It’s not as though Peeta’s madly in love with me – he had a silly crush, and now he’ll get over it. How is it any of _Brody’s_ business who I date, anyway? “Besides, it’s not like he’s having any trouble moving on.” I jerk my chin towards the front door for emphasis.

Brody shrugs. “I’m not convinced.” He doesn’t clarify his words, though, and I’m about to demand what exactly he means when Peeta and Violet push through the swinging door. She’s laughing a high, breathy giggle at something Peeta said. Peeta’s hand moves quickly to his side, and I wonder if they were holding hands just a moment before.

“Hey.” Peeta nods at me but avoids my eyes as they join me by the table. Violet gasps in delight when she sees the flower cake.

“Oh, Peeta. It’s so gorgeous! Did you really make this?”

“I did. It’s not that hard, really,” and as he launches into an explanation of how he crafted the flowers, I get the distinct sense that I’m no longer needed back here. With a last glance at Brody, I slip back out where I belong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I know this chapter was a long time coming and I hope it doesn't disappoint. I ran into some writer's block these past few weeks. But I'm taking a lot of time off in December AND I made a vague outline for the rest of the story, so that should help me get back to regular updates soon! 
> 
> So, this is more of a bakery chapter, and includes the return of Brody! I like writing Brody. To be honest, this is probably really weird and not at all what you guys are thinking, but I kind of envision him as Nolan from the show "Revenge." Yeah. Try and unsee THAT, guys.
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy - hope you like it enough to leave some feedback - and as always, thank you so much for your kind reviews & kudos. :)
> 
> OH and one last thing: If you don't have an AO3 account and don't want to follow the story on FF.net, you can sign up for updates here: http://eepurl.com/nWMF5. Or follow me on tumblr, my username is imloveleee.


	13. thirteen

The Hawthornes invite us over to watch the interviews on Saturday night, but Prim wants to stay at home. It’s just as well; somehow I feel that if Gale were to see me tonight, he’d know that I spent the whole day with my mind on someone else.

The segments for each tribute air in numerical order, meaning Astrid is last. Most years Prim falls asleep before they even get to the end. Then again, most years the District 12 tributes are long gone by this point in the Games.

Prim sits sandwiched on the couch between Mother and I, shaking her leg with nerves as the parents and siblings and friends and teachers of the other tributes make their plea for their loved ones. I’m nervous, too, but I know I have to be steady for her, so I hold her hand tight and hope that it’s soothing rather than suffocating.

Finally, finally, we reach Astrid.

Her parents speak first. Her mother looks just like an older version of Astrid: pale skin, soft brown hair, brown eyes. Somewhere beneath the exhaustion and stress, she’s pretty. Her father is a thin, reedy blonde man, his own brown eyes wet and permanently rimmed with red.

Their interview is like all the other parents’ – _we love her, we’re so proud of her, we know she’s coming home –_ but with a lot less confidence than the mothers and fathers of the Careers. Until the interviewer brings up Prim, that is.

Mr. Mullen’s jaw grows hard and he looks away from the camera, leaving his wife to answer the question. She sighs, taking a moment to gather her words.

“Our Astrid has always been so loving, with all of her friends,” she says carefully. “And Primrose is a…a dear, dear friend. It’s a shame that so many people have misinterpreted what’s a…very close, innocent friendship.”

The screen cuts abruptly to an interview with Astrid’s older brother.

I look at Prim. Her forehead is creased into a deep frown, mouth turned down at the corners, hands balled into fists in her lap. “Prim,” I start, but I don’t know what else to say.

She takes a deep breath, staring at the screen. “It’s okay,” she says faintly. “We knew they would be like this. That’s why we kept it a secret.” My mother slides her arm around Prim’s back, hugging her to her side, and Prim relaxes a bit, resting her head on Mother’s shoulder.

We hear from Astrid’s brother, her childhood friend, her favorite teacher at school. Prim’s interview is the very last to air, and I wonder just how much the Capitol audiences have been clamoring to hear from her, this mystery girl from District 12. There’s nothing random about the way they structure these viewings. It’s all deliberately designed to keep people on the edge of their seats for as long as possible.

The camera is angled towards Prim from the side, so it looks like she’s talking to someone offscreen. Her makeup had looked heavy to me in person, but onscreen it’s hardly noticeable – her skin appears healthy and glowing, her eyes wide and bright.

“Um, I met Astrid in science class last year,” she begins. “I mean, I noticed her before then at school. But we never talked.” A faint blush creeps over her cheeks. “So we were assigned to be partners in science class, and I was excited about it, but I couldn’t figure out why. And it turned out that we really liked each other. And I guess now…now I just wish I’d known sooner.”

_Known what?_ Effie’s voice prompts her softly.

“That I love her,” Prim whispers, tears pooling in her eyes. She looks down at her hands and the camera moves in closer, filling the frame with her face. It’s invasive, and I reach for Prim instinctively, as though I could shield her now from the camera’s prying gaze. But it lingers on, laying my sister open for all the world to see.

The words ring in my ears. _I love her._

She loves her.

She’s just admitted it to all of District 12, to all of Panem – to herself.

But I shouldn’t be surprised. Prim’s been showing unexpected strength for weeks now.

The rest of the interview is what I already witnessed in our living room the other day – Prim’s favorite things about Astrid, and why they’ll help her win the Games. The program closes out with a few words from Caesar Flickerman, and then we’re back to the arena. It’s nighttime there, and quiet, though there’s no telling how long that will stay true.

The three of us are silent, each lost in our own thoughts. Prim’s face is calm. I can’t even imagine what’s running through her head right now.

A hot wave of anger scorches through me as Mrs. Mullen’s words suddenly replay in my mind. A dear friendship? She’s never even met Prim, as far as I know, and to act as though a relationship with my sister is something to be ashamed of – it infuriates me.

“It’s good,” Prim says suddenly, seeming to read my thoughts before I could even get them out. “This thing with her mom. It’s conflict, it makes her interesting. They’ll…they’ll want to see what happens, when she gets home. Who she chooses.”

She’s right, I realize immediately. It’s not even far-fetched – the Capitol engineers drama like this all the time. Maybe Effie Trinket really does know what she’s doing.

“I think…I’d like some time to myself,” Prim continues, looking at me. “Can you give me an hour before bed?”

“Of course. Take as long as you need.” I’d sleep on the couch all night if she asked me to.

Once Prim has left the room, I turn to my mother. “What do you think?”

She sighs. “I’m not surprised by Else’s reaction,” she says. “But I think Prim’s right, the conflict probably can’t hurt.”

“Else?” I repeat. “Is that her mom?”

Mother nods. “We knew each other,” she says simply. She’s never liked to talk about her life before marrying my father, not even before he died.

“Is it because she’s a girl, or because she’s a _Seam_ girl?” I wonder aloud.

“For Else?” She pauses for a moment. “Probably both.” She stands and fixes me with a look. “Now, this dinner with Gale tomorrow night. You’re going to go catch something tomorrow for me to cook?”

Oops. I’d entirely forgotten about my invitation to Gale, and I hadn’t told him that I was off work this Sunday and free to go hunting like we usually do. “Yeah,” I say, yawning. “I’ll catch us something.”

\---

When I wake the next morning, I’m laying along the couch, a thin blanket tucked around my legs. I guess I’d fallen asleep before Prim’s hour was up, after all. I stretch, groaning as my back muscles scream in protest.

A tinkling noise sounds from the television, signaling a sponsor gift somewhere in the arena. I roll my eyes and fumble for the remote. I don’t need to see another Career rewarded with some vicious new weapon from a rich, slobbering fan.

Just as I’m about to click the tv off, I stop. My mind goes blank for a long moment as I try to make sense of what I’m seeing. That’s not a gift for a Career.

That’s a gift for _Astrid_.

“ _Prim!_ ” I shout excitedly, jumping to my feet. “Prim, get out here! Hurry!”

There’s a loud thud from the bedroom, and she stumbles into the living room, eyes still bleary from sleep. “What? What happened?”

“Astrid got a sponsor gift!” I exclaim, gesturing wildly at the television. It’s unlike me, but this is the first unequivocally _good_ thing that’s happened since Reaping Day. It feels incredible to just be _happy_ about something for once, instead of conflicted and confused.

Prim shrieks in response and flings herself into my arms, and I laugh as she hops up and down. Mother finds us like that a few minutes later, blinking in bewilderment. “What did I miss?”

“Astrid got a sponsor gift,” Prim tells her breathlessly, pointing to the screen. “Look.”

Astrid looks just as overcome as we do, tears leaking from her eyes. The gift is a small loaf of bread – this late in the Games, even the simplest gifts cost a fortune – but it means so much more than an extra day or two’s sustenance.

It means someone out there is rooting for her.

\---

I wait until lunchtime to head into the woods, knowing Gale prefers to hunt in the early morning. He’ll just be upset if he finds out we had the chance to spend more time together and didn’t take advantage of it. I shoot the first two rabbits I see and rush back home, helping my mother skin the carcasses as Prim flutters around us, covering her eyes and squealing when the blood becomes too much for her.

The high we all feel from Astrid’s sponsor gift stays with us through the evening, and dinner with Gale is relaxed and fun. In between bites of roast rabbit we tag-team telling stories about funny things that have happened in the forest, and Gale’s impression of a rabid squirrel makes Prim laugh so hard she nearly chokes on her food.

It’s the best night I’ve had in months, maybe years, and I can’t hide my disappointment when Prim announces she’s going to bed. “Oh, but we’re having so much fun, Primmy!” I wheedle, swinging her hand in mine, pulling out the old nickname I’d used for her when we were very young.

She giggles, pushing her hair out of her eyes. “I know, but I’m sleepy,” she says, smiling apologetically. Her eyes dart between Gale and I knowingly. “Besides, the fun doesn’t have to end without me.”

I blush. That’s true, I guess, though she obviously means a different kind of fun. Prim bids us goodnight and I slump back in my seat, my mood abruptly deflated.

Gale stands up from the table, stacking my empty plate on top of his own. “Dinner was incredible, Iris, thank you,” he says, carrying the dishes over to the sink. “Do you need help cleaning up?”

I don’t even hear my mother’s response; I’m too startled. Since when is my mother _Iris_? Gale’s always called her Mrs. Everdeen. I’ve been calling his mother Hazelle all my life, but my mother – she’s not a first-name-basis kind of woman.

I sit up straighter and see Gale looking at me expectantly. He must have asked me a question. “What?”

“I said, do you want to go for a walk,” he answers, looking amused.

“Oh. Um, sure. Mother?”

“Go on,” she says lightly, waving a soapy hand in my direction. “I’ll take care of the dishes.”

Gale takes my hand the moment we step outside, and leads me to the right, in the direction of the meadow and the woods. “That was great,” he says after we’ve walked a few minutes in comfortable silence.

“It was,” I agree, though a part of me wishes dinner hadn’t ended so soon, that we were all still happy and laughing around the small kitchen table. It had felt right – the whole _day_ had felt right. Almost like it was back in the days before the accident that claimed my father’s life.

“I really love your family,” he says, looking at me meaningfully. Because he wants to be a part of it, I realize. He wants to belong at that kitchen table someday. Not as my best friend, or even my boyfriend. As my husband.

I’m not ready for a conversation like that, though, so I stop it from progressing the only way I know how: I rise onto my tiptoes and kiss him.

Gale makes a noise of surprise – I almost never initiate kisses – and slips his hands around my waist, pulling me closer.

The kiss is like all the others we’ve shared – perfectly nice, but nothing that stirs anything deeper within me. I’m just not a kissing person, I’ve come to realize. I like it when Gale hugs me, and there’s an undeniable pleasure that I feel whenever his hands start to drift to the more sensitive parts of my body. But the kisses themselves…they’re just lips touching lips, tongue brushing tongue.

My mind wanders as I think of ways to describe the kiss. _Wet. Warm. Slippery. Slick._

_I wonder what it’s like to kiss Peeta._

The thought is so startling, so random, that my lips go slack against Gale’s. He tries to keep the kiss going for a few seconds, then pulls back. “Something wrong?”

“Um.” _Nothing at all; just another boy popping into my head while you’re kissing me. “_ No. I’m just, I’m tired, I guess.”

Gale sighs and runs his fingers through his hair, taking a small step back. I recognize the movement – he does it when he’s frustrated. “You know, Katniss…if you aren’t ready for a physical relationship right now, you should tell me.”

I gape at him.

“Look, I thought – when you told me you wanted to be with me, I thought you meant…in all the ways that two people can…be together,” he continues. “I mean, you seemed fine with it that night.”

My face grows hot at the memory. I’d let him slip his hand up under my shirt that night, though I’d gently guided it back down when his fingers had started to fumble at the clasp of my bra. If he took that as a sign that I wanted to have sex, well. It wasn’t.

“I – I’m not ready to have sex with you, Gale,” I manage to choke out. “If you thought –“

“No, no, no,” he groans, bringing his hands to his head. “I don’t mean sex. I’m not trying to pressure you, Catnip. I just mean – when I kiss you, sometimes it’s like you’re not even there.”

I can’t comprehend what he’s trying to say. We kiss all the time; what is the problem? “I’m right here,” I say testily, shaking my head. “You’re not making sense.”

“I mean it’s like…it’s like your mind is a million miles away,” he sighs, pacing in front of me. Gale only gets restless like this when he’s truly upset about something. Right now, _something_ is clearly me. “You’re not _with_ me when we’re together. You’re thinking about something else.”

Panic rises tight in my throat – _does he know what I just thought about Peeta?_ – but no, that’s impossible. Gale’s not a mindreader. “Well, I’m sorry I’m not a good enough kisser for you,” I snap. “I wasn’t at the slag heap every other day with a new conquest.”

He freezes, eyes locked on mine.

I regret my words immediately, but it’s too late. The look he gives me is like a punch in the gut. “Gale, I –“

“No.” He shakes his head. “No, you’re right. I kissed a lot of girls. I even did a little more with some of them. And every time, I was thinking about _you_. But I guess it’s too much to ask that now that I’m here _with_ you, you do the same for me.”

“Gale –“ I clutch at his arm in desperation, but he shrugs it off, stepping back.

“I’ll see you around, Katniss,” he says dully, and disappears into the night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! 
> 
> As usual, apologies that this chapter took so long to get out. Shit's been busy, I guess. Luckily I have almost 2 weeks off later this month, though, and I'm hoping to get several chapters done during that time so updates can be a little more regular!
> 
> Thanks so much for sticking with me, and for all your wonderful comments - hope you enjoy!


	14. fourteen

I should go home. I should run after him. But instead I make my way to the meadow and lay down on the ground, letting the long grass and the dark sky cocoon around me.

What did Gale mean, _I’ll see you around?_ Was it simply an angry goodbye? Or is he breaking up with me?

When the thought hits me, I don’t feel sad. I just feel blank, empty.

No matter what else is between us, Gale is my best friend. I don’t want to lose him.

I _can’t_ lose him.

\---

I feel as though I’ve laid in the meadow for hours, but when I arrive home my mother is still in the kitchen, drying the last of the dishes we used at dinner.

She glances over her shoulder at me as she stretches up on tiptoe to slide a mixing bowl into the cupboard. “Gale head home already?”

“We had a fight,” I blurt out, instantly wishing I hadn’t. She sets down her dishtowel and turns to face me.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” I slump into a chair and rest my forehead on my arms, folded on the kitchen table. I’m suddenly too exhausted to do anything but sit here and think about what an idiot I am.

_Peeta?_ Did I really just wreck my relationship with Gale because I’m having stray thoughts about Peeta Mellark – a boy who I’m 99 percent sure already has a girlfriend? I’m not just an idiot; I’m delusional. I’ll never know what it’s like to kiss Peeta. Wondering is a waste of time.

Mother’s voice breaks into my thoughts just as I’m starting to drift off. “Don’t you fall asleep there,” she chides. “You’ll hurt your back.”

I sigh, knowing she’s right, and shuffle into my bedroom, where Prim is propped up against the pillows on the bed. She’s writing in her diary. I guess now that I’m aware of its existence, I’m allowed to see her writing in it.

“You and Gale had a fight?” she asks me gently, and I sigh, nodding as I collapse onto the bed. “What happened?”

“He thinks…I’m not kissing him right, or something,” I say, cringing a little in embarrassment. Prim’s own love life may be splashed all over tv sets across Panem right now, but she’s still only 14, and she’s still my little sister. I don’t really want to get into a detailed conversation about kissing with her.

She clearly does, though. “What does that mean?” she presses, shutting her diary in her lap.

I groan, pressing my face into my pillow. “Prim…”

“Does he not like the _way_ you kiss him, or is it that you’re not kissing him in the right _places_ –“

“Prim!” I shriek before she can go any further with the thought. She giggles, and I can’t help it – I giggle a little too.

“Ugh, I can’t believe you. No, it’s not _that_ , it’s…” I grow sober again, replaying Gale’s words in my mind. “He thinks that I’m not thinking about him when I’m kissing him, or something.”

“Are you?”

Prim’s eyes are wide and serious, and I can’t look at them for long. The truth is, I don’t know. What are you supposed to think about, anyway? It’s not like kissing itself takes a lot of brainpower. I think about all kinds of things when I’m kissing Gale: the kiss itself…whether someone might find us kissing…what we’re going to do when we’re done with the kissing…and yes, sometimes Gale himself.

_And Peeta_ , a little voice whispers guiltily in the back of my mind. I shut it out, focusing on my answer to Prim.

“Not always,” I admit, picking at a fuzzy pill on the comforter. “My mind wanders, I can’t help it.”

“When I kiss Astrid, I can barely think at all,” Prim says shyly. I look up at her and she ducks her head. I smile a little, squeezing her hand.

“She got a sponsor gift today,” I remind her, and she nods.

“I know.” Prim swallows. “I want to think that everything will be okay, but I’m just…I’m scared.”

“Don’t be scared,” I say soothingly, scooting closer on the bed so I can wrap my arm around her. Prim leans her head on my shoulder and I press my cheek against her soft, fine hair.

“Do you think she’s coming home?” Prim’s voice is so quiet I can barely hear her.

“She could,” I say, hesitant to answer her outright. It’s not impossible – especially now that we’ve seen at least _someone_ in the Capitol is on Astrid’s side. _Probably someone who made a big bet on a long shot_ , I think cynically.

Prim doesn’t respond, and so we sit together in silence, thinking of kisses and bread, and things we know we shouldn’t hope for.

\---

My heart races through my entire walk to the bakery on Monday morning. It’s ridiculous – literally impossible – but part of me is completely convinced that Peeta will _know_ the kind of thoughts I’d had about him yesterday evening, just by looking at me.

That is, if he’d look at me at all. He barely glances my way when I enter through the kitchens, waving a hand over his shoulder as he voices a soft _hello._ Brody notices, and gives me an exaggerated welcome, belting out my name as he waves his arms like a madman. I just scowl and dart through the swinging door to the front as quickly as possible.

It’s a busy morning, luckily, and the steady stream of customers is enough to distract me for the first few hours. Everything’s humming along perfectly…and then Violet walks through the door.

“He’s in the kitchen,” I say before she can even open her mouth to greet me. Some part of me vaguely recognizes that it’s rude, but why beat around the bush? She’s here to see Peeta, not make small talk with the Seam girl at the cash register.

“Oh, okay.” Violet looks a little startled, but she smiles at me anyway. “How are you, Katniss?”

“I’m good.” I expect her to continue her path to the kitchen behind me, but she doesn’t move, and I realize she expects me to return the question. “Um, how are you?”

“Oh, I’m good too, thanks for asking.” She smiles again, and gestures towards the swinging door. “Okay if I head on back?”

I nod and move aside, giving her space to squeeze past me. Snippets of the conversation from the kitchen reach me as the door swings back and forth behind her; hellos, how are yous, and then a brief silence before the soft chatter picks up again. _Probably for a kiss_ , I think.

Violet’s visit isn’t long, only twenty minutes or so, and I wonder if she just comes here as a break in her workday, the way Gale did for me. Her parents own the district tannery, but I can’t picture Violet working leather, with her soft, unblemished hands and clean, pretty dresses. She doesn’t smell like she works with leather, anyway – it’s a notoriously foul process.

I’m handing over the last loaf of rye bread to a customer when Violet emerges from the kitchen. “Bye, Katniss,” she says, giving me a smile and a wave. I don’t know how one person can smile that much, honestly.

“Bye,” I echo. The customer follows her out the door and I’m finally left alone – but we need more rye bread. I move towards the door to the kitchen but stop just short of it when I hear Brody’s voice, louder than usual. He sounds angry.

“What are you doing?”

A pause. “What? I’m refreshing the sourdough starter, like Dad asked.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Okay, what _do_ you mean?” There’s an edge to Peeta’s voice that I haven’t heard before.

“You know what I mean.”

“No. I don’t. Go ahead, enlighten me.”

Now is the moment when I should walk in, diffuse the tension that I can feel brewing, even from the other side of the door. But I don’t. I know that it’s wrong, and yet something keeps me locked in place, listening.

“Fine. Violet. You broke up with her for a reason.” I guess I was right; Violet _is_ one of the girls I’d seen with Peeta around school. “And as far as I can tell, that reason still applies.”

“That reason was stupid,” Peeta says. “It’s not…realistic.” His voice grows much quieter, and I strain to hear the rest: “She has a boyfriend.”

It takes a second to click – then, _oh. Oh._

I’d thought that was over. I’d thought that after Gale coming to visit me…after Violet coming to visit _him_ …

My heart is pounding so loud that they _must_ hear it; I’m sure of it.

“Yeah, maybe you’re right. Maybe it was stupid. But it doesn’t give you the right to go fuck around with a girl who adores you and has no idea you don’t feel the same way.”

“I’m not fucking around with Violet! I like her.”

Brody pauses for just a moment, and I imagine him pulling a face, his _are-you-fucking-kidding-me?_ face that I’ve actually come to know fairly well in the short time that I’ve known him. “You like her? Well, she loves you.”

“She doesn’t _love_ me.”

“Don’t be stupid. You see the way she looks at you. She loves you, and you don’t, and you’re using her.”

“You’re not…that’s not fair,” Peeta says quietly, after a long silence.

“You’re right it’s not fair. It’s not fair to _Violet_.”

“You know, you’re not exactly a relationship expert,” Peeta spits out. “If I remember correctly, Ava couldn’t even wait a month to break off your engagement.”

Now it’s Brody’s turn to go silent. I can’t believe how cold Peeta’s voice had suddenly sounded. Who is Ava? _Brody_ was engaged?

Peeta breaks in again before his brother can respond. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have said that.” There’s something new in his tone now – panic.

There’s a clatter, then footsteps. “You can clean this shit up,” Brody says, his voice growing fainter as he heads up the stairs.

“Brody,” I hear Peeta call, but there’s no response, save the harsh slam of a door from the second story. Another clatter rings out, as though Peeta’s thrown one of the big metal bowls to the ground in frustration.

I press my back against the wall beside the door, steadying myself. _What just happened?_ I knew that Peeta and Brody weren’t the closest brothers, but I never thought I’d hear them fight like that.

Deep down, though, I know what’s happened: me. They were fighting about me.

I want to scream. I didn’t ask for this, for any of it: for Peeta’s crush, for Gale’s affections, for the guilt I’m suddenly carrying over Violet Plumwell and her love – unrequited? – for the boy on the other side of the door.

But I guess it doesn’t matter what I want. It never has. People are getting hurt, people who don’t deserve it, and somehow, inevitably, it all comes down to me.

I don’t want to be a part of it anymore.

I take a deep breath and push open the door.

Peeta’s back is to me, and he’s hunched forward over one of the long metal tables, his palms flat on the floured surface. He’s still as I approach him; I don’t think he even hears me coming until I’m beside him.

“Katniss.” There’s worry in his voice, worry that I’d overheard. I try to act nonchalant.

“Hey. Um, where’s Brody?”

The simple question works – I can sense his relief, his shoulders relaxing a little as he straightens up. “He wasn’t feeling well,” he says smoothly. “I think his cold might be coming back.” I’d almost be impressed by how well he lies, if I wasn’t also unsettled by it. I feel like the last ten minutes have introduced me to a new side of Peeta, and I’m not sure if it’s one I like very much.

“Oh, that’s too bad.” Unlike Peeta, I’m a terrible liar, so I move on. “We ran out of rye bread out front…I just thought maybe we should bring some more out.”

“Oh, sure. Just a sec.” Peeta moves past me to a rack against the wall, where a dozen or so loaves of bread are left from this morning. I watch him as he scans the rack, looking for rye, and a wave of sadness crashes over me. I don’t want to do this, not really. But I know it’s the right thing.

“Peeta – I’ve been thinking. I don’t know if this job is working out for me.”

He turns to me quickly, and our eyes lock together. But I tear mine away, looking over his shoulder to the rack on the wall.

“I don’t think I’m very good with customers,” I continue quickly. “And I’m terrible at baking – _really_ terrible, and I just think –“

“Hey, slow down,” he says, stepping back towards me, his eyes wide with concern. “Is this because of what my mom said the other day? Because she’s crazy, she just says things like that to get a rise out of me.”

Peeta stops a few inches before me, and he reaches out his fingertips to just barely brush my arm, right above my elbow. I jump a little at the contact. Even the very tips of his fingers feel warm against my skin, unexpectedly so.

“No,” I say, but it comes out a whisper so I clear my throat and try again. “No. I’m just not…good at this. I need to be hunting more. I’m going to start helping my mother with her healing, too,” I fib wildly. Where did that even come from? I need to get out of here before I tell him I’m moving to the Capitol to become a district escort.

“So…I’m going to go,” I stammer. I back away, ready to leave, but he reaches out and catches my hand. I freeze, staring up into his eyes.

“Katniss…” He trails off, dropping my hand suddenly. “Did you…did you hear me and Brody just now? Because you don’t –“

“What? No,” I interrupt; but I say it too quickly, and I know he knows I was listening. He knows that I heard.

“Look, please, just listen to me –“

“I have to go.” I move quickly this time, too quickly for him to stop me. “I’m sorry. I really – I’m sorry.”

\---

In the end, I’m glad that I left the bakery early that afternoon. Because by the time I arrive home, something terrible has happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. This is a really evil cliffhanger. I know. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I promise I won't make you wait 3 weeks for the next chapter, though.
> 
> 2\. I'm really nervous about this...because even though I'm happy with how the chapter turned out, I guess shit's about to get real?
> 
> 3\. Yes, there is a reason for Brody to be so upset about this, and yes, you will learn what it is, eventually.
> 
> 4\. A couple people asked about this - no, the bread Astrid received was not from Peeta's bakery. That would have been quite a feat of logistics!
> 
> 5\. Happy holidays!!!


	15. fifteen

It’s not the axe, wielded by the boy from District 1, as I’d feared the night we gathered to watch the Games in the town square. It’s not starvation, as I’d expected when I saw how helpless she was at gathering food.

It’s a poison berry, plump and juicy between her fingers, that kills Astrid Mullen in the 76th Hunger Games.

I’m not there to see it live. I’m not sure exactly when it happened – when Peeta and Brody were fighting? When I told Peeta that I quit my job at the bakery? When I ran home through the heavy midday heat, struggling to hold back tears whose origin I couldn’t pinpoint?

What I do know is that Prim saw it, every second of it. Prim saw her find the berries, pick them, pass them through her pale, chapped lips…and fall, dead before she even hit the ground.

They replay her death that night in the evening Games recap, and I recognize the berries – they’re nightlock. They grow around here, in the woods, and my father had taught me to avoid them before he taught me anything else. They’re easily mistaken for blueberries – the only difference is they’re bright red inside. But who could know that? Who, except someone like me, who spent their childhood trespassing in the forest?

I didn’t even know nightlock berries could grow in the mountains. Maybe they don’t. Maybe the Capitol just put them there, to see if anyone would bite.

Either way, the Gamemakers must be a little disappointed. It’s the first death in days, and it’s silent and painless. Over in the blink of an eye.

At least that’s what I tell myself: _She didn’t even feel it. She didn’t know it happened. She didn’t have to be scared, or hurt._

Somehow, it doesn’t make me feel any better.

\---

Prim is already in hysterics by the time I get home. Mother and I try to calm her, but we’re both distraught ourselves, and our emotions only feed off of one another. Eventually Mother gives her a dose of sleep syrup, mixed into a glass of water. We carry her into the bedroom, tuck her in under the sheets. Even in sleep, little, hiccupping sobs continue to escape from her throat.

I don’t understand how this happened – how last night, we were laughing and celebrating, buoyed by something as simple as a loaf of bread from a stranger. Now, under the harsh summer sun, everything looks different. My best friend hates me. I’ve lost our main source of income. Another innocent child is dead. And my sister has lost her first love, forever.

I know that Prim will be asleep at least until tomorrow morning, so I leave, hoping a long walk will clear my head. My mother says my name as I open the door, and I pause, looking back, but she shakes her head, says _nevermind._ We both know we’re no comfort to each other, even in the best of times.

Before I even realize where I’m going, I’m in front of the tree trunk where I keep my bow and arrows hidden. The weight of my bow is reassuring in my hands, familiar, and I climb up a tree just a few paces away to sit.

The forest is alive around me, flush with squirrels and birds and rabbits, but I don’t even think about using my bow. No more death; not today. Instead I sit in silence, nestled between two sturdy branches, for two, three, four hours, letting my mind go blank.

Eventually the sky begins to change, warming into a lovely orange glow as the sun starts to dip below the trees. I don’t want to return to my house, heavy as it is with sorrow and regret. But I have nowhere else to go.

The realization startles me as I climb down from my tree: not Gale’s house, not the bakery, not even the Hob, where I know people will whisper and gossip. Nowhere.

There’s a roll and a small bowl of stewed vegetables waiting for me on the kitchen table when I get home, but the house is silent. Mother must have gone to bed early. 

I lift a spoonful of the vegetables to my mouth, but they’re cold and limp. I’m not hungry anyway. I let the spoon drop back into the bowl. And I start to cry.

This time it was Astrid. But next time, it could be Prim.

And no matter how much I love her, there is _nothing_ I could do to bring her back to me.

\---

I let myself cry in the quiet, dark kitchen. The only sounds are the ones I’m making myself – even the television is turned off tonight – and I feel, intensely, how alone I am.

I’m terrified of who I’ll find when Prim wakes up in the morning. Will it be _Prim_? Or will it be some shadow of Prim, an echo of her, broken into so many pieces that we can’t pull her back together?

I don’t want to go through this again: dragging a shell of a person I love behind me through life, the way I did with my mother. I’m not sure I even _can_ do it again _._

Ultimately, though, this is not about me. I’m not allowed to break down. And if I’m going to hold it together for Prim in the days, weeks, even months to come, I’ve got to get this out of my system now.

Eventually I feel my heartbeat slow to its normal pulse, and my ragged breaths grow even. Just as I stand up to clear the table, there’s a knock at the door.

Before I can even move to answer it, it swings open. Gale stands still in the doorway for a split second, and then he’s gathering me up in his arms, his cheek pressed against my temple.

He smells like ash and dirt. “I came as soon as I heard,” he explains breathlessly, and I know he must have come here straight from the mines. 

I’m overcome with relief that he’s here, that _someone is here_ with me, and I cling to him for longer than I should, my fingers digging into the sweaty skin of his back. We stand like that for minutes, until Gale pulls away suddenly, as if he’s just remembered that he doesn’t want to embrace me anymore.

He looks around the tiny room with a frown. “Are they in bed?” he asks quietly. I nod. “How’s Prim?”

I shrug helplessly. Why even ask the question? “Not good,” I say shakily. “We had to give her sleep syrup just so she’d calm down.”

Gale nods, but his frown deepens into concern as he takes in my appearance. I must look like a mess, I realize, after a day spent in the trees, after sobbing at my kitchen table alone in the dark. “Are _you_ okay?” he asks.

I shrug again. “Doesn’t matter,” I mutter, turning to walk over to the couch. He follows me, settling onto the cushion beside me. There’s space between us, a few conspicuous inches, and neither of us moves to close it.

“It matters,” he says. “You matter.”

I meet his eyes, but they’re impassive, unreadable. I don’t say anything, and eventually he looks away, gazing down at his hands. There’s ash in the lines of his knuckles, beneath his fingernails.

A sickening jolt of fear passes through me, seemingly out of nowhere. The mines could be my only option for work, now that I’ve quit the bakery.

“Well, I’m here to help,” Gale says finally. “You don’t have to do this all by yourself.”

_We don’t even know what_ this _is,_ I think, but I give him a weak smile nonetheless. “Thanks.”

\---

My body wakes with the sunrise the next morning, still ready to head into town and open the bakery. I can’t fall back asleep, and in my hazy state I imagine Peeta and Brody and Mr. Mellark rushing around the kitchen, the brothers swapping shifts in the storefront. A tiny thread of guilt tugs at my stomach, but I know Peeta will be back in the town square this afternoon, actually tacking up his yellow flyer this time on the job board.

Or maybe they’ll just give it to Violet.

The thread tugs harder when I think of the pretty blonde girl, so I try to wipe my thoughts of anything to do with the bakery.

Prim begins to stir beside me just as the clock on our bedside table reaches 8 am. “Prim,” I whisper, and her eyes crack open slowly. They’re bloodshot, but they soften a little when they find my face.

I push the matted hair away from her face, and let my hand rest over her temple. “You okay?” I ask gently.

“I had a bad dream,” she whispers, and my chest constricts in panic. Does she…is it possible that she doesn’t know? That the sleep syrup dragged her so far under that she doesn’t remember what was real and what was only a dream?

Before I can respond, I have my answer: Fat tears drip down her blotchy cheeks and she keens into the crook of my arm, her wail muffled against my side. Her pain is fresh and raw and endless, infinite. I feel it seeping into me, yet separate from me, floating at the surface of my mind like oil on water.

I don’t speak. I only hold her tighter.

\---

Gale is already up and awake when I emerge from the bedroom, stirring a pot of oatmeal over the stove. My stomach grumbles loudly, and he smiles a little. “Hungry?”

I nod enthusiastically, and murmur a soft _thanks_ as he spoons a bowlful of the hot cereal out for me. He switches off the burner and turns to me, leaning against the counter, arms folded over his chest. “She wake up yet?”

“Yes,” I say thickly, swallowing down a spoonful of oatmeal. “But then she cried herself back to sleep.”

Gale sighs. “Yeah, I thought I heard her. That’s better than nothing, though, right? Better than your mom?” He whispers the last part, in case my mother is awake. I don’t bother telling him that she’ll probably spend the whole day in bed anyway, trapped in memories of my dad. She still does that sometimes.

I tilt my head, considering. “Yeah, I guess so.” I don’t really remember Mother’s initial reaction to my father’s death. I was so young, and so caught up in my own grief, that everyone else was an afterthought in those first few miserable days.

But I do remember the memorial service we’d attended, and the medal they’d given to us and the other families whose loved ones died in the mine explosion. I’d worn my nicest dress for that ceremony, and my hair was neatly done, so Mother must have been at least functional at that point. The vacancy set in later.

That day was the first time I’d ever seen Gale up close. What struck me the most was how _angry_ he’d looked, standing up on the stage with his younger brothers and pregnant mother. I couldn’t have known that in a few short years, that angry boy would be the person who knows me better than anyone; that a few years after _that_ , we’d be on the verge of a breaking point in our relationship.

The morning passes slowly. Mother joins us an hour or two after breakfast, looking pale and drawn. She seems surprised to see Gale, but offers him a small smile, patting his arm as she passes him on her way to the kitchen cupboards.

I check on Prim periodically, but she’s either truly exhausted from the stress, or doesn’t want to see me again, because she’s fast asleep each time I peek into the room.

Around lunchtime Mother leaves to make a house call, and Gale and I are alone again.

I’m not sure what we are to each other anymore. He hasn’t brought up our fight, which I’m grateful for, but he’s also barely touched me, except for the hug when he first arrived last night. He didn’t go home last night, insisting he’d be fine on the couch, and I can’t deny that it was a comfort knowing he was only steps away as I drifted off to sleep.

“You don’t have to stay here,” I tell him. “You’re missing work for no reason.”

He shrugs. “Do you want me to go?”

Do I? I’m not sure why, but part of me recognizes that if I tell him to go now, that’s it – that’s the end of Gale and Katniss, best friends, hunting partners, and maybe something more. And that’s not what I want at all.

“No,” I say quietly.

I find an old, battered pack of playing cards on the small bookshelf where I keep my father’s plant book, and we play game after game of War together. It’s rote and mindless, but it calms me. I even find myself smiling at Gale’s sounds of disbelief as a double war becomes a triple war becomes a quadruple war.

As Gale shuffles the cards for a new round, someone knocks at the door, _tap tap tap._ “It’s probably your mom,” I say, and he nods as I stand to answer it.

But it’s not Hazelle; not even Vick or Rory, or someone looking for my mother, or someone who’s actually _been_ to my house before.

It’s Peeta.

I watch him dumbly as he steps towards me, holding an envelope out before him. “Hi. I brought you this,” he says, and I take the envelope, peeking under the flap. It’s cash, my final paycheck.

“Thank you,” I say quietly. He holds out his other arm, a small burlap sack clutched in his hand.

“And this. I thought… _we_ thought…you could use some extra today.” I accept the bag, and as soon as its weight hits me I know it’s bread. Three, maybe four loaves. It’s far too generous for someone who just left them short an employee, but I’m too shocked to argue.

“Um. Thanks,” I say again, turning to head back inside. Peeta’s voice stops me.

“Katniss, wait. Look, I’m so sorry about what happened yesterday. I’m an idiot. I shouldn’t –“

This makes no sense. Why is _he_ apologizing? Remembering Gale inside, I pull the door shut behind me. “You don’t have to apologize,” I tell him. “There’s nothing to feel sorry for. It’s just…it’s not a good fit for me.”

Peeta falls quiet, like he’s thinking something over. “I didn’t tell my dad you quit,” he says suddenly. “I told him you ran out after you saw what happened to Astrid. You can come back. It doesn’t even have to be right away, he knows you have to take care of Prim.” Peeta takes a deep breath. “Please come back, Katniss.”

I’m taken aback, but for a brief moment, I consider it. Quitting was a rash decision, and I haven’t yet had time to sort through the implications in my head. I wasn’t lying when I told Peeta that I wanted to hunt more, but I’m not confident that I’ll be able to make as much money selling and trading my kills as I would working at the bakery. Especially not if I’ve lost one of my most reliable customers.

And the mines…I can’t even think about working in the mines without panic clawing at my chest.

“Why?” I say before I can stop myself. “Anyone could do that job. Why do you care if it’s me?”

His eyes are piercing, steady, and I feel my breath catch in my throat when he says, “You know why.”

He’s right. I _do_ know; that’s what makes this so difficult. But this time, I don’t look away. And we stand like that, frozen in place by a force I can’t name, until the front door creaks open behind me.

Gale steps through the doorway to stand beside me, and I blink as Peeta looks over my shoulder to take him in. “Hey,” Gale says gruffly.

“Hey,” Peeta replies, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I was just bringing some bread and pastries for you all.” He gestures towards the sack, limp in my hand. “It’s from all of us, my family.”

“Oh. Thanks.” Gale doesn’t move, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Thanks,” I echo. Peeta nods, looking at me again.

“Please tell Prim she has our deepest sympathies.” He backs away slowly, his eyes never leaving my face. “And…let me know, Katniss.”

Gale and I watch him retreat in silence, until he’s finally out of earshot. “Let him know what?” Gale asks.

“Just…when I’m coming back to work,” I say. It’s more or less the truth, though it’s a much more loaded statement than I’m letting on. I haven’t actually told Gale or my mother that I quit my job yet. I’m not sure if he’ll think it’s a mistake to give up the income, or if he’ll be pleased that I’m not spending all my time in town with the Mellarks anymore.

He’ll probably be happy, I decide, if not outwardly then at least in secret. Emotions outweigh practicality with Gale every time.

Gale takes the bag from me and sets it on the kitchen counter, pulling out the pastries first. They’re danishes, made with sweet cheese and raisins. They’re one of the more expensive items we – _they_ – sell at the bakery, and I know Peeta must have slipped those into the bag himself. There’s no way his mother would have allowed those to go for free – no way she would have allowed any of this, really. I sincerely doubt there’s a bag like this being delivered to the Mullens’ house.

I watch as Gale pulls out a few plates, and carefully starts to cut into the danishes with a knife. “I’ve never had one of these,” he says, slipping a piece off of the knife onto a plate.

“Really?” I say without thinking. At Gale’s look, I blush. Of course he’s never had a danish. The only reason I’ve had one was Mr. Mellark giving me one at work. He’d said it was overcooked and unfit for sale, but it tasted fine to me.

“They’re good,” I say quietly, accepting a plate. We sit at the kitchen table together, and Gale raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah, I bet,” he says, taking a bite. “Kind of weird that they’d bring food over here, though. You’re not Astrid’s family or anything.”

“Everyone knows how Prim feels about her,” I say defensively, unwilling to admit that I’d come to the same conclusion just moments ago.

Gale only shrugs, and continues to eat his pastry in silence. I’m grateful that he doesn’t press. My first priority now is Prim; everything else can wait until later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, sadly, we've come to the end of Astrid's story. (Though not the end of Prim's!) I know that a lot of people were rooting for her, and I actually did waver a little on whether this should happen, but ultimately I just don't think it would have been realistic for a 15-year-old Merchant girl from District 12 to win the games. I couldn't really bear to have her attacked by another tribute, though, which is why I kinda gave her an "easy" death with the nightlock. I hope it's not too disappointing.
> 
> Please let me know what you think - and thank you so much for your reviews & kudos! Have a wonderful New Year's Eve!


	16. sixteen

Gale goes home soon after we eat, resting his hand on my waist and pressing a kiss to my cheek as he says goodbye. His movements speak of something more intimate than friendship, but it’s nothing like the way he’d say goodbye to me just two or three days ago. I don’t know what it means. I don’t ask.

I offer Prim the cheese danish that’s left, but she turns it away. “I’m not hungry,” she says flatly. I lower myself gingerly on the edge of the bed, plate in hand.

“You sure? They’re really good.”

“I’m sure,” she says, and rolls away from me onto her side, facing the window that opens onto the pen where we keep her goat, Lady.

Mother returns from her house call in the evening, just as the sun is drifting below the horizon, streaking the sky with orange and purple. “How’s your sister?” she asks quietly, setting her medicine bag by the front door.

I’m not sure what to tell her, because the truth is, I don’t know. How _should_ someone be the day after the person they love was killed in the Hunger Games? She’s not wailing and crying, but she’s not totally blank, either – just somewhere in between. “Okay, I guess. She’s not eating.”

Mother hums in disappointment. “Well, that’s normal.” As she turns to the kitchen sink to wash her hands, a coil of resentment tightens in my chest. Of course _she’d_ think that. But before I can respond, she speaks again. “Mrs. Farren told me that the...that they are scheduled to come back from the Capitol tomorrow.”

She means Astrid and Olli: their bodies. I feel a pang when I think of Olli’s parents, who have been waiting to bury their boy for weeks. The Capitol always sends both tributes back on the same train after the Games, no matter how far apart they died; evidently they don’t think it’s worth making more than one trip.

I glance towards the bedroom. “Do you think Prim will want to go?” Many families wait at the train station to accept the coffins themselves, so they can prepare the bodies for the memorial service that takes place a day or two later, and say their own, private goodbyes. But Prim isn’t family.

Mother shakes her head slightly. “You’d know better than I would,” she says with a shrug, wiping her hands on a ratty, aging kitchen towel.

It’s true. I would know better – because she hasn’t even made an attempt to talk with Prim since those first awful moments we spent trying to calm her down. “Right,” I snort derisively. “Because her own _mother_ obviously wouldn’t know how she feels.”

She turns to face me then, looking stricken. “Katniss.”

It occurs to me, not for the first time, how pale my mother’s eyes are – not a deep blue like Peeta’s, or a bright blue like Prim’s. Just a pale, faded blue, like an old shirt that’s been washed too many times, masking an ache that’s had a hold on her for years. I stare back impassively, waiting for her to yell, or scold me, or do anything, really.

But she doesn’t do any of those things. She just looks at me, the hurt plain and open on her face. And suddenly the emotions welling up in me – anger, guilt, shame – are too much. Just…too much.

“I’m going for a walk,” I spit out, and the front door has slammed behind me before she can even open her mouth to protest.

\---

My footsteps crunch aggressively on the gravel road that runs past our house. At first, my instincts had led me towards the Hawthornes’ house. But I still don’t know where Gale and I stand, and I’m still so upset with my own family that I don’t think it’s the right time to hash that out.

Instead I head towards the center of town, a rare trip for me at nighttime. Since electricity is so unreliable in District 12, most of the shops in town close with the sunset. And since funds were so unreliable in my house, I almost never had reason to visit the shops for anything but a trade, anyway.

As I expect, the center of town is quiet and empty. A few dim pools of light dot the ground, lit by kerosene streetlamps. I find a bench next to the sweet shop and sit, breathing in deep. The air is warm and a little damp. It might rain tonight.

The buildings in town are much nicer than those in the Seam, some of them even what you’d call pretty – the government officials who come on business every now and then can’t be expected to look at eyesores _everywhere_ they go in District 12, of course. But as pleasant as it is to sit here, alone with my thoughts, the squirming feeling that I don’t belong never quite goes away.

If I look to my left, I can see the bakery, where a little glow of yellow light is just barely visible from the kitchen in back. Peeta and Brody are probably in there right now, prepping for tomorrow’s business.

 _Peeta_. His name floods my thoughts with confusion. We barely know one another – and yet there’s some kind of connection between us that I can’t shake. All along I’ve thought it was just the gratitude, the sense of _owing_ that I’ve always felt towards him, ever since he threw me the bread. But after everything that’s happened over the past few days, I’m terrified that it’s becoming something else entirely.

“Katniss?” A soft, feminine voice breaks open the silence behind me. I snap my head around and see that it’s Madge Undersee, the mayor’s daughter, approaching me hesitantly. A paper bag is clutched in her delicate, pale hands.

We were friends in school, Madge and I, or as close to friends as you can be when you rarely speak with one another. We were partners in class, and sat together at lunch, but our tentative friendship never really took hold beyond the school grounds. As our graduation approached, we drifted apart, knowing that we wouldn’t have much in common once our classes ended – at least not beyond our brief conversations when Gale and I would show up at her back door with strawberries to sell.

I haven’t even seen her since the day of the Reaping, when we’d exchanged quick, silent nods in the line where we stood waiting to have our fingers pricked before we were herded like cattle into the town square.

“Hi Madge,” I say, watching as she steps carefully toward me.

“What are you doing out here?” she asks, stopping just in front of me. She looks the same as she always did in school: golden hair falling in wispy waves to her shoulders, a modest, well-made blouse fitted over her well-fed frame. Madge was always the very picture of Merchant success, but somehow I could never hate her for it. She had about as much choice growing up the daughter of the mayor as I did growing up the daughter of a coal miner.

When I don’t answer, she sits on the bench beside me, careful to keep a few inches between us. “I’m very sorry about your sister’s girlfriend,” she says, her voice lowered. “I really thought she might win. I could tell from Prim’s interview that she cared about her very much.”

“Thank you,” I say quietly, touched by what seems to be her genuine concern. Her paper bag stirs my curiosity. “What are you out here for? I thought all the shops closed at night.”

Madge looks away. “The…well. We have an agreement with the couple who run the apothecary. If my mom’s having a bad spell, we can come by any time.”

“Oh. I’m sorry,” I tell her sincerely. Everyone knows that the mayor’s wife spends her days bedridden, wracked with pain from some kind of chronic illness, but no one knows exactly what’s wrong with her. Madge clearly doesn’t want to talk about it, anyway, so I change the subject.

“Strawberries are in season, I’m sorry we haven’t been bringing them by lately,” I say. Madge frowns a little, turning back to me.

“What do you mean?”

“You know. The strawberries we used to bring by? Your dad would buy them from me and Gale?” It’s been a while since the last time we sold strawberries to the mayor, but surely Madge’s memory isn’t _that_ bad.

“But – I mean, Gale’s been bringing them every week.”

That’s news to me. Gale’s been selling strawberries to the Undersees behind my back? _Not behind my back_ , I tell myself quickly. _I haven’t even been out in the woods with him in weeks._ But in all the times that we’ve talked about his hunting, he’s never mentioned that the mayor’s house is still on his Sunday morning route. And something about that irks me.

“Oh,” I finally say. “I didn’t realize.”

“I heard you’re working at the bakery?” she says abruptly, clearly sensing my discomfort. Unfortunately, she chose the wrong topic if she wanted the conversation to get any less awkward.

“I was,” I say shortly. “Not anymore.”

Madge seems to realize that she’s struck a nerve, and she sits up straighter, crinkling the paper bag reflexively in her hand. “Oh. Well, I should get this stuff home to my mom,” she says, standing. “It was really nice to see you, Katniss.” She pauses. “You should come by some time, if you want. We could have tea, or something.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I say, managing a smile. I know as I say it that it’s not going to happen; the mayor might be willing to overlook my poaching for fresh strawberries, but I can’t imagine he’d approve of his daughter inviting a criminal into his home. “Have a good night.”

“Good night,” she echoes, and sets off for her house with a little wave. She looks back over her shoulder at me just as she reaches the bend in the road towards home, and I wave back.

\---

My encounter with Madge did nothing to improve my mood, but it did redirect my sour thoughts away from my mother, at least momentarily. She’s sitting on the couch when I arrive home, bathed in candlelight, mending a pair of pants that I’d torn in the woods a few weeks ago.

“Hi,” I say quietly, leaning against the doorway into the living room.

She glances up at me briefly, her expression neutral, before returning her attention to her needlework. “Hi.”

“I’m sorry about what I said earlier,” I say before I can second-guess myself. “Maybe…I wasn’t being fair.”

Mother doesn’t respond for a long time. I guess she’s not ready to forgive me – fine. But as I move to walk away, her voice stops me.

“No, it was fair,” she says evenly, her eyes still focused on her needle as she weaves it through the seam of the pants. “That’s what made it so hard to hear.”

I hesitate in the doorway. “I quit my job,” I blurt out.

My admission is enough to pull her eyes away from her mending. “Why?”

“Because…I don’t think I’m meant for it. I’m not – I don’t know. I’m messing things up more than I’m helping.” Even as I say it, I realize my reasoning doesn’t make much sense. “It’s hard to explain.”

“Was Mr. Mellark going to fire you?” she presses. “Was he not happy with your work?”

“No,” I admit quietly. “He said I was doing really well.”

Mother shakes her head in disappointment, turning back to the pants in her lap. “Well, your decisions are your own, Katniss. But remember that they affect the rest of us, too.”

“You think I don’t know that?” I demand, my anger flaring up again. So much for making amends. “Seriously? I’ve spent half my life keeping us afloat, no thanks to you.”

Mother doesn’t respond, the purse of her lips the only acknowledgment that she’s heard me. Her non-reaction only infuriates me more. “Okay. You’re just going to sit there? That’s fine. I hope you’re happy when I die in a goddamn _mining_ accident.”

That gets her attention. Her eyes flash dangerously with a look I’m not sure I’ve ever seen from her before. “Don’t you dare use that tone with me.”

“I’ll use any damn tone I want –“

“Why are you yelling?” Prim’s voice interrupts me. I’m shocked to see her standing behind me, looking worn and mussed from sleep, her nightshirt twisted uncomfortably around her torso. It’s the first time I’ve seen her out of bed in days.

I struggle to moderate my voice, but it still rings out loud and unstable. “Because I quit my job, and _she_ has a problem with it.”

“Why did you quit your job?” Prim asks softly, her brow furrowed in concern. “Katniss?”

“Because…I just…I did.” All my reasons seem to fall apart here in front of Prim, who’s in pain, who’s relying on _me_ to be the strong one. The provider. The protector.

I can’t be those things for her if I’m constantly worried about hunting enough game, gathering enough food, earning enough money. And if I _do_ end up in the mines, she’ll never make it through a day without wondering if her sister will actually come home that night.

Prim is fourteen. She’s lost too many people already.

I have to go back to the bakery.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I feel like I do this with every single update - but sorry the wait was so long! I've been going through a dry spell lately, writing-wise.
> 
> Thank you so much for all of your comments and kudos, though! I appreciate it so, so much.


	17. seventeen

Nothing wakes me up quite as quickly as realizing that I’m alone in my bed.

I sit up straight, heart pounding. Prim’s side of the bed is cold. The dim light outside tells me it’s just barely dawn.

She’s not in the kitchen or the living room, either, but my pulse calms once I see the note on the kitchen table. _I’m going to see the Capitol train this morning_ , it says in Prim’s loopy, girlish handwriting. _I’ll be back around lunch. Prim._

So Mother must have told her about the bodies returning today. I don’t know if greeting the train is a good idea for Prim right now, especially in light of what Astrid’s parents’ said during their interview. But the note is here and her shoes are missing from their usual spot next to the door, so it’s clearly too late to convince her otherwise.

Besides, I’ve got my own uncomfortable trip to make this morning.

The pigs are already gathered noisily at their feeding trough by the time I reach the bakery. I hesitate at the back door, anxious. What if Peeta changed his mind, and told his father I wasn’t really coming back? What if they realized they can manage just fine without me, now that I’ve been gone a few days?

Before I can talk myself out of it, I force my knuckles against the back door in a knock. It flings open about thirty seconds later. “Oh.” Brody blinks in surprise. “I was sure Peeta was bullshitting us when he said you were coming back to work.”

“Um. Nope,” I say, hoping my sudden blush won’t give away our lie. “Just…needed a few days.”

Brody nods and stands back so I can come in, his face surprisingly sympathetic. “How’s your sister doing?”

“She’s alright,” I say vaguely, unsure why Brody would even care. “Is Peeta around?”

“Oh, _now_ you’re interested in Peeta’s whereabouts,” he says, an edge of sarcasm to the words. He glances towards the stairs. “Well, you know Peeta. He’s still up there making himself pretty for the day.”

“What’s that, Brody?” Peeta’s voice calls from the landing, a thud of footsteps following soon after. “Who are you talking to –“ He stops in the doorway at the bottom of the steps. “Oh. Katniss?”

I wave a little. “Hi.”

It doesn’t take long for him to overcome his surprise, and he moves towards me with a growing smile on his face. I think he’s going to hug me, my whole body tensing in preparation, but he stops just short of touching me. “I’m so glad you’re back,” he says sincerely.

Brody snorts. “It’s been like, two days, Peeta. Control yourself.”

We both glare at him, though now it’s Peeta who seems to be fighting off a blush. Brody just snickers and saunters off towards the table in the back of the room, where a lump of dough waits to be kneaded.

Peeta turns back to me, shrugging apologetically. “Sorry, he’s just…Brody. How is Prim?”

“Oh, she’s okay,” I say quickly. I lower my voice, well aware that Brody’s probably still listening. “Could I…talk to you?”

“Sure, of course.” Peeta glances around the room, eyes finally settling on the door to the front. “Here, we’re not open yet.” He leads me through the swinging door to the space behind the register and leans back against the counter, looking at me expectantly. “What’s up?”

“I wanted to say thank you,” I breathe out in a rush. “For covering for me when I quit. I can’t really afford to lose this job, but I guess you realized that better than I did. I wasn’t thinking straight.” I swallow. “So…thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” he says.

“Well. Okay.” I smile a little, and turn away to start the cash register for the day, thinking our conversation is over. But Peeta just stands there, watching me thoughtfully.

I pretend not to notice that he hasn’t moved until he clears his throat slightly. “Can I…” he trails off. “No, nevermind.”

From the corner of my eye I see him move towards the door. “What?”

Peeta pauses. “Can I be honest for a second?” he finally says. My hands fall still over the counter.

“Um, sure.”

“I’m pretty sure that you overheard Brody and I arguing the other day.” It’s a struggle to keep my face neutral; my heart abruptly picks up its pace, practically pounding through my ribcage. I can tell that he’s waiting for confirmation before he continues, so I nod again, keeping my eyes turned away from his.

“So…you know that…” He half-laughs, half-sighs, rubbing his hands over his face, which is flushed so deeply it nearly matches the red trim on his apron. “Ah, this is really hard to say. Um…”

“It’s okay,” I interject. “You don’t have to say anything.”

“No, I do.” He pulls his hands away and gives me a sad, shy smile. “I mean, you already know. I really like you, Katniss.”

After a long, awkward pause, I nod mutely, staring at my shoes. It’s really all I’m capable of at the moment.

“I know that you have a boyfriend,” he adds quickly. “I respect that. I would never try to interfere with that. I just wanted to clear the air, I guess.”

I feel like I should say something in response, but my brain is pretty much frozen. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Peeta shoves his hands into his pockets, ducking his head. “I mean, I would really like to be your friend. I really mean that. I can get over a stupid crush. But I understand if I’ve made you uncomfortable. I haven’t been so good at being your friend so far. ” He pauses, scuffing the toe of his shoe against the floor. “Okay. I’ve tortured you enough. I’ll be back here if you need anything.”

“Peeta.” He lifts his eyes to meet mine, and I’m a little taken aback by the intensity. “I don’t…you don’t make me uncomfortable,” I say lamely.

One side of his mouth lifts up in a smile. “Words that every guy longs to hear.” I look away, embarrassed, and he groans. “No, see. This is exactly what I mean. I’m sorry. I’m not saying anything like that to you ever again, I swear.”

A soft chuckle escapes me. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Peeta repeats. He thrusts his hand out towards me, palm open. “So…friends?”

I offer him my hand, and he shakes it firmly, his fingers warm and steady around my own. “Sure.”

\---

Despite everything, there’s a lightness in me all morning that can’t be dampened. Not by the middle-aged father who lets his three young children run rampant through the shop while he hems and haws over a package of cookies. Not by the old woman who mutters something rude under her breath when I tell her we’re out of raisin bread for the day. It’s not until the awful, awkward split-second when Else Mullen walks into the shop, sees me, and heads straight back out the door that I remember I don’t have much right to be happy right now.

I didn’t know who she was until I saw her interview on television, but I guess she knows who I am.

Nonetheless, Peeta’s words run through my head at the strangest moments, each time triggering a warmth that spreads through my stomach. _I want to be your friend._ Who knew that just laying it out there would make things so much easier between us? I can speak to him without fearing that he’ll misinterpret my intentions; I can take his words and actions at face value, instead of reading into every smile that flickers across his face.

Now that there are no more secrets hanging over our heads, I can just…relax.

In fact, work is so much more carefree than my last few days at home that I almost don’t want to leave when my shift is up at three. Peeta and Brody watch in barely-masked amusement as I drift around the kitchen, finding one last thing to clean up or put away before I go.

“Hey, if you’re looking for more work, have at it,” Brody calls out to me, opening his arms in a grand gesture over the dirty mixing bowls piled in the sink before him.

I shake my head, wrinkling my nose slightly. “No thanks. I should go.” I stop at the door and look back over my shoulder. “Bye, Peeta.”

He lifts his hand in a wave. “See you tomorrow.”

On my way home I debate going to see Gale, before I remember that he’s at work all day. The realization relieves me, though I feel bad about it. I have to talk to him eventually.

“Hello,” I call out as I arrive home, but there’s no answer. I poke my head into my bedroom; Prim’s not there. “Prim?” I ask, but I already know it’s useless. She’s gone.

A hundred awful scenarios run through my head all at once. Some small part of me, buried deep in the back of my mind, knows that nearly all of them are unlikely, if not outright impossible. But Prim should be home by now, and she’s not. My instinct is to panic.

The train station is normally a twenty-minute walk from my house, situated just past the district mines. With the exception of tributes once a year, coal is pretty much the only thing that ever makes its way in and out of District 12.

Today, I make it there in ten.

Prim is there, _thank goodness_ , seated alone on one of the wooden benches that line the cement platform. “Prim,” I gasp out, slowing to a jog as I approach the platform.

Her eyes widen at my sweaty, sudden appearance. “What’s wrong?” she demands, standing.

“What’s wrong?” I repeat, coming to a stop just in front of her. “I should be asking you that. You said you’d be home by lunch.”

As soon as she realizes that _she_ was the cause of my worry, she drops back down onto the bench. “Oh. Sorry,” she says indifferently.

I sit beside her. “You can’t just disappear like that,” I say, my voice shaky.

Prim rolls her eyes. “You knew exactly where I was. I didn’t disappear.”

“If you say you’re going to be somewhere, you should be there,” I insist, unwilling to let it go. “If you say you’ll be home by lunch, you should be home by lunch.”

“Fine,” she sighs, and when she glances at me I notice that her eyes are rimmed in red, but dry. “I’ll wear a tracker, too. Then you’ll never wonder where I am.”

“Hey. I’m just worried about you, Prim,” I say softly.

“I’m fine,” she says shortly, staring out at the tracks. “I’m not Mother. I know that’s what you’re worried about.”

I don’t answer. My gaze follows hers, out towards the steel train tracks. The land out here is sparse and ugly, sporadic patches of weeds and grass the only thing able to grow through the layers of coal dust settled onto the soil. But far, far away, there are mountains, rising lush and green out of the ground. Gale used to talk about climbing them one day – setting out with a few packs and our bows and arrows, living off the land.

I’d been dismissive. It wasn’t the first time he’d suggested running away into the wilderness, and every time I told him the same thing: We can’t. We’d be killed. We have families to think of. That kind of talk had faded from our conversations, though, as Gale fell into the routine of the mines and reality set in.

“I couldn’t even tell which one was her,” Prim says finally, her voice cracking. “They weren’t labeled. They had to pry one open and l-look…”

I slide closer and wrap my arm around her. Her head drops to rest on my shoulder, but the tears I expect never come. She must be all cried out for the day.

“D’you want to go home?” I murmur, and feel her nod against my shoulder. “Alright. Let’s go.” I take her hand, she doesn’t let go all the way home.

\---

The house is still empty when we get there, and Prim and I play a quiet game of gin rummy to pass what’s left of the afternoon. Mother walks in an hour or so after dinnertime, and I excuse myself to my room to read. She knows I have zero interest in the old medical journals or Capitol-approved textbooks that line our bookshelf – but I’m not interested in talking with her, and I don’t care if she knows it.

Dinner is late that night, and uncomfortable. I shovel it down as quickly as possible. “I’m going to see the Hawthornes,” I mumble on my way out the door.

I’m not looking forward to hashing out my relationship with Gale. But at the moment it seems infinitely more appealing than sitting in silence with my mother and Prim all night, so I follow the familiar path to his house.

 Hazelle opens the door with a warm smile, though there’s a hint of a question in her gray eyes as she greets me. “Gale,” she calls over her shoulder. “Katniss is here to see you.”

Gale emerges from his bedroom looking tired, his hair mussed and messy. “Hey.”

“Hi,” I say, fiddling with the end of my braid nervously. “How are you?”

“Alright,” he says, coming to stand beside his mother. “Yourself?”

“I’m okay.”

“And Prim?”

I shrug. “Okay, I guess. She’s walking around, doing things. Not…you know.” Gale nods.

Hazelle looks oddly between the two of us. “Well, I’m going to turn in,” she says, reaching up to pat Gale’s cheek. He ducks his head away, a small flush settling over his cheeks. “Don’t stay up too late.”

“G’night, Mom,” he says, leaning down to give her a kiss on the cheek. I watch their easy interaction with something verging on jealousy. My life would be so different today if I’d had a mother like Hazelle.

Gale and I are left in tense silence. I wrap my arms around my middle, suddenly wishing I hadn’t come. Gale clears his throat. “Want to sit down?”

I nod, following him into the living room, but when I take a seat on the sofa he settles down opposite me in an old armchair. It feels like a slight. We sit in silence for a long moment, both unwilling to make the first move.

But eventually Gale gives in. “I guess we need to talk about…us.”

“Yeah.”

He sighs. “I just…I really don’t know what you _want_ from me anymore.”

_I don’t, either._ But there’s no use in telling him that – what good would it do? “I want things to be like they always were,” I say softly. “I…I miss just hanging out with you.”

“Me too,” he admits, studying his hands. “But I want _more_. And I thought you did too. That’s what you told me.”

“I did,” I agree, swallowing hard. “Look, I’ve never wanted a boyfriend, or marriage, or babies, or any of it. But I’m really trying –“

“You shouldn’t have to _try_ ,” he interrupts stubbornly. “If you love me, you love me.”

He makes it sound so simple. As if love is just this one thing, standing alone, untouched by guilt or fear or any of the other feelings I’ve come to associate with it. As if it’s so obvious to recognize, so effortless to accept.

“It’s not that easy for me,” I say honestly.

Gale frowns down at his hands, clenched together in his lap, and when he looks back up at me his eyes are wet. I feel tears pricking at my own eyes in return. I’ve never seen Gale cry – _never._

“Then I don’t know if I can keep doing this anymore,” he says quietly. “This isn’t a game to me, Katniss.”

It sounds so…final. “But what…what does that mean?” Just that he can’t be my boyfriend? Or that he can’t be my _friend?_

“I told you I loved you when you were sixteen years old, and you treated it like...like you could just shrug it off. And fine, you were sixteen. But here we are two years later and you’re still…“ He shakes his head, cutting himself off.

Anger wells up before I can control it. “You think _I_ think it’s a game?” I demand. “Well, what about Madge Undersee?”

Gale stares at me blankly. “What about her?”

“You sell her strawberries,” I say accusingly, but even as I say it I can hear how ridiculous I sound.

“Yeah, I do,” he says, looking at me in disbelief. “It’s easy money. You used to do it _with me._ ”

“I know,” I mutter, already regretting bringing it up.

Gale sits up straighter. “Wait, do you – are you accusing me of something here?”

“No,” I say quickly, my face growing hot. I was, sort of, without fully realizing it myself.

He shakes his head with a sharp laugh. “I can’t believe this. All this time and that’s really what you think of me?” He stands, towering over me, his eyes hard. “I think you should go home, Katniss.”

I leap to my feet, shaking my head. “Gale, please. I didn’t mean –“

“You know the way out.” He points to the front door before stalking into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. THANK YOU for your reviews! They're wonderful and I love reading them so much. I'm flattered that so many people enjoy the story enough to have such interesting thoughts on everything, so, again: thank you.
> 
> 2\. We're finally reaching a bit of a turning point that I think most of you have been waiting ages for, so I hope it all felt in-character and natural. Big thanks to starkist for helping me work out some of the characterization for this chapter!
> 
> 3\. I'm on tumblr and I love chatting about ficcy things, so feel free to visit me - my username is imloveleee.


	18. eighteen

Prim is still awake when I get home, seated at the kitchen table, an old, yellowing picture book open before her.

Seeing the book sends a twinge of nostalgia through me. It once belonged to my grandmother, who passed it down to my mother, who made sure it was one of the few possessions she brought with her when she moved to the Seam with my father. It’s the only connection we have left to that side of the family now; my mother’s parents died before I was school-aged, and I’d only met them a handful of times before that, anyway.

Prim only looks up for a moment when I shut the door behind me, running her fingers down one of the pages. “Hi,” she says softly.

“Hi.” I pull out a chair next to her and lean over for a look at the page. There’s a drawing of an elephant, a massive, gray beast with giant ears, a long nose and curved white tusks protruding from its face. I wouldn’t have believed it was any more than a fairy tale creature someone had dreamed up if I hadn’t seen a real one in a Tribute parade a few years back. “You haven’t looked at this book in a while.”

Prim nods, flipping to the next page, which has another strange animal – a pink bird standing on one leg. A flamingo. Another thing that doesn’t exist anymore, except maybe in one of the Capitol’s zoos.

“I know…it used to help me sleep.” She shuts the book abruptly and meets my eyes. “How is Gale?” Her forehead creases slightly as she takes in my appearance. I’d cried a little on the way home, and though I’d gotten it under control after a few minutes I’m sure my eyes are still puffy and red. “What’s wrong?”

I hesitate. Is it really fair to burden Prim with my own problems, when she’s got so many of her own? Probably not – but her expression tells me that she’s not going to let this one go. I look down at the table, tracing my fingernail in one of the deep grooves in the wood.

“We broke up.”

Prim’s mouth falls open – I’d laugh if I didn’t feel so drained. “How come?”

The truth that I’m only now realizing – that no matter how much Gale loves me, no matter how long he waits for me, I’ll never love him in the way that he wants – is too painful to admit out loud. I drop my head onto my arms, folded on the tabletop. “It wasn’t working out,” I say evasively, my voice muffled against my forearm.

I feel a light pressure between my shoulder blades. Prim’s hand. “I’m sorry,” she says quietly.

I know that she’s trying to help – but honestly, her words only make me feel worse. Prim shouldn’t be comforting me right now. What have I even lost, in comparison to her? Gale might hate me, but at least he’s alive. And if this mess has taught me anything, it’s that I’m just not capable of the kind of feelings that Prim had for Astrid.

“Don’t be.” I turn my head to the side, peering up at her. “We’re not right for each other. It’s okay.”

Prim nods a little, thinking. “Are you still going to be friends?”

“I don’t know.” I close my eyes, breathing deeply through my nose. “I hope so. But I think…I really hurt him this time.”

“He’ll forgive you,” Prim says. “You’ve been friends for so long.”

“That’s part of the problem,” I say, burying my face against my arms again. Gale has wasted years of his life waiting around for me. If I’d just been honest from the start…if I hadn’t tried to twist my feelings for him into something they weren’t…he could have fallen in love with some other girl who loves him back, and moved on. Like the way Peeta is trying to move on with Violet.

“Well,” Prim’s voice rises a little, like she’s trying to keep it light. “If you end up an old maid, at least you’ll be in good company. With me,” she clarifies.

I recognize it as an attempt at a joke, but I’m still a little startled by her words. This is the first time Prim has made any reference, even a vague one, to the fact that she’s not like most girls in the district.

I stay silent, waiting to see if she’ll continue with the thought, but she doesn’t elaborate. “Hah,” I say with a weak smile.

Prim tries to return it, but the corners of her mouth tremble, and her features twist up for just a moment before she gets them under control, forcing herself to look neutral.

“I don’t think you need to worry about that,” I say gently, sitting upright. “Half the district is in love with you already.”

“And the other half thinks I’m a freak,” she says flatly. Her eyes grow wide for a second, like she’s surprised at her own admission. She looks away, unwilling to meet my gaze.

“They don’t,” I say firmly. “And if they do, they’re idiots.”

Prim says nothing, seemingly uncomfortable at the turn the conversation has taken. I decide not to push it – if she wants to talk about this, she’ll let me know in her own time. I could use some time to figure out my own thoughts on the matter, anyway. “I’m going to sleep. Early shift tomorrow,” I declare, standing up from the table.

“I’m glad you got your job back,” Prim says softly.

“Yeah,” I nod. “We really do need the money. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“No, I mean – that’s true. But I just think…being there seems good for you.” She shrugs. “I don’t know.”

I smile a little, thinking back to this morning. It _was_ good for me to be there – it _is._ “I think you’re right,” I tell her. “Well. Goodnight, Prim.”

\---

I sleep soundly that night, and this time when I wake up in the morning, Prim is stretched out in the bed beside me, her mouth hanging open on the pillow.

When I open the front door to leave, I nearly stumble off the front step as I try to avoid stepping on the plain brown envelope resting against the bottom of the doorframe. _Prim Everdeen_ , it says in bold black letters on the front.

I pick up the envelope and shake it a little, but it seems like there’s just a note or a card inside. It’s strange – we never really receive anything in the mail, except official communications from the Capitol that everyone in the district receives from time to time. But this doesn’t even have postage on it, which means someone must have dropped it here before sunrise.

I debate opening it myself – what if it’s something cruel, some kind of trick? I can’t pinpoint exactly why, but the letter gives me a bad feeling. Ultimately, though, it’s not my place to read Prim’s private mail, and I set the envelope on her usual seat at the kitchen table.

I’m a little earlier than usual at the bakery that morning, and when I arrive it’s just Peeta in the kitchens, scooping dough out onto a cookie sheet with a spoon. “Good morning,” he greets me with a warm smile.

“Morning,” I echo, giving him a small smile back.

“How was your night?” he asks, turning his attention back to the cookies.

Kind of terrible, to be honest.But it would be awkward to tell him about what happened between Gale and I, out of the blue like that. “It was fine. Uneventful,” I say. “What about you?”

“Well, Brody got in a screaming match with our mom, which is always a blast,” he says.

I frown, glancing at the stairs that lead up to the Mellarks’ apartment. I’m not sure why he’s telling me this, but my curiosity gets the best of me. “What were they fighting about?”

Peeta shrugs. “I never really know. Anything can set her off. Him, too, though.”

My mother might not be in the running for any parent of the year awards, but at least she’s not like Mrs. Mellark, I remind myself. I remember with a sinking feeling the deep purple bruise that had shown up on Peeta’s cheek the day after he threw me the bread – and the other scattered bruises I’d noticed on him throughout the years. Maybe there’s a reason Brody isn’t down here yet. “Is he…okay?”

Peeta looks up at me, and I can tell that he understands exactly what I’m asking. “He’s fine,” he says. “Now that we’re older she doesn’t…get physical anymore.”

I nod and look away, embarrassed that I’d even asked. We’re not really close enough friends for that. 

Luckily, Brody chooses that moment to barrel down the stairs and into the kitchen, breaking the awkward silence. “Hey,” he nods at me, grabbing his apron off a hook on the wall before joining Peeta. He dips a finger into the bowl of dough and then sticks it in his mouth, humming in approval.

Peeta shoves him aside. “Don’t do that,” he snaps. “If Dad saw he’d kill you.”

Brody just rolls his eyes, but I wrinkle my nose up in confusion. “Did you just _eat_ the dough?”

The boys both look at me in surprise. “Um, yeah,” Brody says. “You’ve never eaten cookie dough?”

I cross my arms over my chest. “When would I ever have eaten cookie dough? I didn’t even know you could.”

“Okay, fair enough. But duh, it’s cookie dough,” Brody scoffs. “Of course you can eat it.”

“Here,” Peeta says, approaching me with a small spoonful of dough. “It’s really good. We’re just not supposed to eat it until _all_ the cookies are made,” he explains, throwing a glare at his brother.

I eye him warily, but scrape up a little of the dough with the tip of my finger. Peeta’s eyes dart away when I lick it off my finger, savoring the sweet, buttery flavor. It _is_ really good.

“Okay, it’s good,” I say, and they both laugh. I even chuckle a little myself, the good mood contagious.

The bakery is busier than usual today, and the morning flies by so quickly that the grumbling of my stomach catches me by surprise around lunchtime. I leave the bell on the counter and take my lunch into the kitchen to eat with Peeta and Brody. Peeta explains that yesterday was payday for employees of the Capitol – mainly the Peacekeepers and Justice Building workers. The rich people in town, basically. He knows because his oldest brother, Ned, works in the Justice Building.

About halfway through lunch Brody heads out to make some deliveries, leaving Peeta and I alone. I sit at one of the long tables, chewing my lunch contently, while Peeta pours batter for a specially ordered layer cake into round metal pans. The silence between us is surprisingly comfortable, until the drone of the television in the back of the room suddenly increases in volume.

Our eyes meet in a moment of understanding – it must be time for the finale.

Some years, the Capitol tries to make a big show of the Hunger Games finale – they’ll hype it up for days and then force the remaining Tributes into a confrontation during the evening hours, when everyone in Panem is home from work and lacking an excuse to miss the show. Other years they just let it happen. Those are the years when the probable winner isn’t exactly “likable.” And since it’s just past noon on a Wednesday afternoon, this must be one of those years.

Peeta and I move to stand in front of the television, my lunch and his cake forgotten. I don’t really want to see it, but sometimes after a finale the Peacekeepers will randomly stop by and quiz you on what happened in the arena, so it’s better to just suck it up and watch.

My family had pretty much stopped paying attention to the Games after Astrid’s death, so I’m a little surprised to see that one of the two finalists is the girl from District 4 – the one who had spent so much of her time flirting with one of the Career boys just a week ago. I’m less surprised that the other is Stunner, the boy from District 1 who’s proven to be extremely deadly with an axe.

Even though the midday sun is shining bright here in District 12, in the arena it looks as though evening is setting in – more dramatic that way, I guess. But what’s even more dramatic is the ring of flames encircling the Tributes. The Gamemakers must have set the arena on fire to push them together.

Compared to most years, it’s over pretty quickly – the girl from 4 is fast, but with the fire edging in closer and closer there aren’t many places she can run. In the end, she’s no match for Stunner’s brute strength. I close my eyes just before the axe enters her chest with a sickening thud. Unthinking, I reach blindly for Peeta’s hand.

He must have reached for me, too, as his fingers slip between mine easily, squeezing my hand tight. I keep my eyes closed for what feels like hours, but I can’t shut out the sounds of the television: The triumphant anthem that signifies a winner. Claudius Templesmith’s voice booming throughout the arena. Stunner’s howl of victory. The raucous cheering of the Capitol crowds.

Eventually the jarring noises subside, settling into the jaunty back-and-forth recap that Claudius Templesmith and Caesar Flickerman are so well known for. Peeta’s voice is steady when he says, “You can look now.”

I blink rapidly as my eyes adjust to the light; Peeta is still beside me, staring sadly at the screen. He looks over at me after a moment. “Well, at least it’s over,” he says.

I nod, swallowing a lump that’s suddenly formed in my throat. His eyes drift down to our hands, still clasped between us, and we both pull away hastily. He purses his lips, looking embarrassed, but neither of us says a word.

I watch, feeling numb, as the men on the television recap Stunner’s greatest moments: killing his first victim in the bloodbath, finding the axe, the slaughter of the Tributes from District 2. Then they abruptly shift tone as photos of the dead Tributes pop up onto the screen in a lackluster attempt at a memorial. My stomach turns when Astrid’s sweet, freckled face appears.

“I’m never getting married,” I blurt out of nowhere.

Peeta looks at me strangely. “Um. Okay,” he says. After a pause, he asks, “Why not?”

I gesture angrily at the screen. “How could you have kids? Knowing that this is what’s waiting for them?”

“Wait – are we talking about having kids? Or just getting married?”

“Same thing,” I mutter, regretting my outburst.

“Not really,” he says. “You don’t have to have children just because you’re married.”

“Name one couple that doesn’t have kids.”

“The Tuckers. The Hanks.”

“They’re Merchants.” I leave the rest of my thought unspoken, but I know Peeta gets it. _They’re Merchants, and they can afford birth control._

“Maybe you’ll just have to marry a Merchant, then,” he says lightly, walking past me to open the oven door and check on the pieces of the layer cake he’s baking.

I snort. That’s not how it works, not at all. When my parents married, it wasn’t my father who had to adjust to life on the other side of town.

There is nothing to gain from going against the grain in District 12; there are only things to lose.

“I’m sorry,” he sighs before I can respond. “That was inappropriate.” He starts to speak, stops himself, and then asks: “Does Gale want to have children?”

I look at him sharply; if anything he’s said today was inappropriate, it’s probably that question. But before he can apologize again I shrug. “Yeah, I think so.” I swallow, deciding to just be honest. “Doesn’t really matter. We kind of broke up.”

Peeta’s face remains impassive. “Oh,” he says. “I’m sorry.” And although I know that Peeta is a skilled liar, he sounds like he truly means it.

“It’s okay,” I say. An awkward new tension has suddenly sprung up in the air between us, and my heart starts thudding loudly in my ears. “Well, I should get back out there,” I say quickly, and stride across the kitchen before he can say another word.

“I broke up with Violet.” Peeta’s voice rings out just as I reach the swinging door. I falter, looking back at him over my shoulder. His face is red, but he meets my eyes directly. “Just. In case you were wondering,” he says.

“Oh.” I push the door open a little. “Um. I’m sorry, too.” I duck out before he can respond.

And all afternoon, I wonder if he could tell that I _didn’t_ truly mean it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know Peeta is totally like, ffffffffff why did I friendzone myself right before this happened!? haha.
> 
> Thank you very very much for your reviews and kudos! <3 Hope you enjoyed this chapter. Lots more Peeta! :)


	19. nineteen

_I broke up with Violet. In case you were wondering._

I’d spent the remainder of my shift at the bakery a jumble of nerves, worried that Peeta would corner me with a question about Gale or a more detailed story about his own break-up. But he never mentioned it again, just acted like his normal, friendly self – quite a contrast to my own jumpy, anxious demeanor.

With Peeta’s words bouncing around my brain, taking up all the space, I hardly even notice where I’m walking once I leave work until I’m literally at my front door. I pause on the stoop, squeezing my eyes shut for a moment before I open the door. _Stop thinking about it. I have more important things to take care of._

Mother is seated on the couch, working on a knitting project when I finally enter. She only glances at me for a moment before returning her attention to her needles. “How was work?”

I don’t answer immediately. We’ve been brusque with one another ever since our fight earlier in the week, and even though I know it’s immature, I can’t stand the fact that she was right. It _was_ foolish of me to quit my job at the bakery – foolish, selfish, short sighted. I can admit that to myself. But to her?

“Fine,” I say shortly, toeing off my shoes by the door. “Where’s Prim?”

At the mention of my sister, she sets the knitting down in her lap and looks over at me. She nods her head towards the kitchen table. “Did you read that letter for her this morning?”

I follow her gaze into the kitchen, where the envelope I’d found on the doorstep still lays. Now it’s torn open, a letter unfolded at Prim’s place at the table. “No,” I say slowly. “Why?”

“Go ahead. Read it.”

She actually sounds _angry_ , which almost frightens me a little. I can count on one hand the number of times my mother has expressed anger in the years since my father died – one of them was just the other night. “What’s wrong?” I demand, my socks slipping a little on the wood floor as I move quickly to the table.

“Just…read it.”

I pick up the letter. It’s handwritten. I still can’t explain why the envelope had given me a bad feeling this morning, but it seems that my instincts were right.

_Prim,_

_We hope you are doing well during this difficult time. We know that you were good friends with our daughter, Astrid, and we’re grateful for the friendship that you shared._

_However, as Astrid’s parents, it’s our responsibility to ensure that our daughter’s memory is protected and preserved in the way that she deserves. We were not happy to hear the statements that you made regarding the nature of your relationship, but we recognized them for what they were: an attempt to intrigue the sponsors in the Capitol and save her life in the arena._

_Therefore, we’re sure you will understand our request that you do not attend the Tributes memorial service planned for tomorrow afternoon. The service is a time to remember Astrid as she was, not as she pretended to be for the sake of the Hunger Games, and we feel your presence will blur that line._

_Sincerely,_

_Spalding and Else Mullen_

I read the letter twice in a row, just to be sure I wasn’t misunderstanding the first time. “This is – _absurd_ ,” I grit out once I’ve finished.

Mother doesn’t answer, but her pale blue eyes are stony, and I know for once we’re in total agreement.

“I can’t believe they’d do this to her.” I throw the letter back on the table in disgust. “What right do they have? Where is Prim? What did she say to this?” I demand.

“She was _upset_ , Katniss,” she says, as if she’s baffled that I’m even asking the question. “The real question is how that woman thinks she can tell my daughter where she’s welcome.”

 _That woman._ She means Astrid’s mother, Else. I remember how she’d said her name with distaste after the family interview had aired. There’s some kind of history there, more likely than not. But at the moment I don’t care to know more.

“Where’s Prim?” I repeat.

 “She took Lady to the meadow a few hours ago,” Mother says, her voice softening. “I think you should go find her.”

She doesn’t have to tell me twice, though there’s an unavoidable flash of annoyance that yet again, it’s _my_ job to find Prim, _my_ job to keep her safe. It doesn’t even occur to her to go after Prim herself – though after all these years, why change now? My shoes are back on in record time, and I stride to the meadow at a fast clip, my hands clenched into fists at my sides.

I see Lady right away, chewing contentedly on some weeds by the edge of the field. “Hey, Lady,” I say softly, bending down to scratch the goat between the ears. She butts her head against my arm, wanting to play. _At least one of us is making it through this okay_ , I think ruefully.

“Where’s Prim, girl?” I straighten up. “Prim?” I call her name loudly, but there’s no answer.

I move further into the meadow, calling Prim’s name again with every few steps. The grass is tall during this time of summer, though, and when I finally find her it’s because I nearly trip over her in the process.

“Ow,” she mutters, rolling away from my foot. She’s curled into a ball on the ground, and from the way she blinks up at me, bleary-eyed, I can tell that she’d fallen asleep here. Cried herself to sleep, judging by her puffy, red-rimmed eyes.

I settle down into the grass, sitting cross-legged beside her. “Hey. Sorry,” I say, unsure where to begin. “How are you feeling?”

We both know it’s a stupid question, and Prim doesn’t answer, picking at a blade of grass. With a deep breath, I continue. “I saw the letter. They’re idiots. I can’t believe they’d even say something like that to you.” My hand settles over her own, and I squeeze her fingers gently. “I’m so sorry, Prim.”

At first I wonder if she even heard me, because she’s silent, unmoving. But all at once her shoulders start to tremble, and a broken sob escapes her lips.

I lay down beside her, stroking her hair gently. I let her cry. I can feel tears pricking at the back of my own eyes, but I force them away, determined to be steady for her.

“I th-thought I c-could do this,” she chokes out at one point, curling further in on herself. “B-but I c-can’t. I hate it. I can’t –“

“Shh,” I whisper soothingly, trying to provide some sort of comfort. “Don’t try to talk. It’s okay.”

Prim shudders against me, hiccupping, and eventually her breaths slow. We lay in the meadow for what feels like hours, until I realize the deep, even pace of her breathing means she’s fallen asleep again.

I stand and scoop her up from the ground. Even at 14 years old, she’s still a tiny girl, and I feel a pang of guilt that I haven’t been able to feed her better over the years. I carry her haltingly back through the meadow, clucking my tongue at Lady as we pass, who follows me obediently towards home.

\---

Mr. Mellark tells me the next morning that we’re closing the bakery early, out of respect for the fallen Tributes, but that I can leave even before then if I need the time to get ready at home.

“Oh.” I look down at the table where I’m kneading a loaf of bread, ashamed by what I’m about to tell him. “We’re actually not going to the service.”

There’s an odd silence, and I know all three of the Mellark men are a little stunned by my admission. If you knew one of the Tributes, even in passing, you attend the memorial service. That’s just how it works.

“I see,” Mr. Mellark says finally. “Well, the offer still stands. We’re not expecting much business today.” He attempts a smile and disappears into his office in the back.

I press my lips together, focusing intently on the dough before me. We had discussed it last night, Prim and our mother and I, and concluded that there was no use in potentially causing a scene. I’d encouraged Prim to go anyway, to hell with Astrid’s parents, but ultimately it was her decision alone.

Peeta and Brody don’t say much, and I slip out to the front of the shop mostly unnoticed when it’s time to open the store. There’s a slow trickle of customers today, some of them already dressed in their mourning clothes – the same solemn, slightly fancy clothes they would have worn to the Reaping just a month or so ago.

Around lunchtime I decide the Mellarks will be fine minding the shop for another hour or so before closing if I go home. I’m relieved that it’s just Brody in the kitchen when I head back to let them know I’m leaving. I haven’t forgotten Peeta’s words to me yesterday, and I’m sure he hasn’t either. I’m just not really prepared to address them quite yet.

“I’m heading home,” I tell Brody. He looks up at me from the dishes he’s washing, his expression oddly intense.

“Why aren’t you going to the service?” he asks bluntly.

I frown, taken aback. “That’s none of your business.”

“It’s weird,” he says harshly. “I thought your sister was in love with the girl.”

“She was,” I snap. _She is, she_ is, a voice inside me screams. “But her _parents_ specifically requested that Prim not attend. They don’t want to _ruin her reputation_.” I say the last bit with air quotes.

Brody snorts, shaking his head. “That’s bullshit.” His fist slams into the table before him, and I jump back, shocked. “Fucking bullshit,” he says again, louder this time.

“It’s…yeah,” I say lamely, bewildered by his reaction. In the brief time I’ve known him, I never got the impression that Brody cared much about the Merchant-Seam divide in our district. But I guess everyone’s got hidden depths.

“Sorry,” he mutters, rubbing the hand he’d used to punch the tabletop with a wince. I hesitate, waiting for an explanation for his outburst, but it never comes.

“Are you okay?” I finally ask, unsure if I really want the answer.

Brody clears his throat, refusing to meet my eyes. “I’m fine,” he says shortly. “Have a good one.”

I’m grateful when Peeta chooses that moment to thunder down the stairs, rescuing us from the increasingly uncomfortable moment. He sees me by the door and nods. “You heading home?”

“Yeah. It’s kind of dead out there. I left the bell out.”

“Thanks. Um.” Peeta’s eyes dart between his brother and me. Brody doesn’t acknowledge him, concentrating very intently on his dishwashing. “I’ll walk you out.”

Normally I’d point out that we’re only about 15 feet from where I need to “walk out,” but if Peeta can offer a little clarity on Brody’s odd behavior, I’m all ears. He follows me outside and past the pig pens, staying just a step or two behind until we’re well away from the bakery itself.

I stop and face him, crossing my arms over my chest. Peeta shoves his hands into his pockets – a tic I’ve noticed as I’ve gotten to know him better. It means he’s nervous. “Is Brody being rude to you?” he asks. “You should tell me or Dad if he is. It’s not okay.”

I shake my head. “No, it’s not…he just got upset, I guess, when I told him why we’re not going to the memorial service.” I explain Prim’s letter to Peeta, who frowns in sympathy.

“That’s bullshit,” he says, and I almost laugh at his word choice despite the grim topic of conversation. They’re definitely brothers, Peeta and Brody.

“It is,” I sigh. “I just didn’t expect Brody to feel so strongly about it.”

Peeta glances over his shoulder, back towards the bakery, but there’s no one there but the pigs, dozing in the sun. “He’s been acting weird lately,” he admits, looking back at me. “He wouldn’t want me to tell you this, but…”

He trails off, and I watch him expectantly. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Peeta and Brody over the last few weeks, it’s that they’re not very good at keeping one another’s secrets. Peeta shrugs. “Whatever, you should know. His ex-fiancée just got engaged again, and I think he’s been taking it kind of hard.”

“He had a fiancée?” Even as I say it, a name pops into my head: _Ava_. I’d heard Peeta throw her name around during the argument I’d overheard – okay, eavesdropped on – last week.

Peeta nods, his face falling a bit. “Yeah, all through school he had this girlfriend, Ava, and they were just…inseparable. They got engaged a couple months after graduating, but she dumped him a few weeks later.”

“Why?”

 “He wouldn’t say. He just said it wouldn’t have worked out.” Peeta lowers his voice. “I think he cheated on her. I mean, I never thought that Brody would do that in a million years. But it’s the only thing that makes sense.” He shrugs again. “Anyway, it has nothing to do with you, so don’t take it personally. But don’t let him be an asshole, okay? That’s not fair to you.”

“He wasn’t being an asshole,” I remind him. “Just…aggressively sympathetic.”

Peeta laughs. “Alright.”

Although our talk seems to have come to its natural end, Peeta doesn’t move away. He just stands before me, smiling, hands still deep in his pockets, like he doesn’t want to get back to work. I can’t blame him – it’s a beautiful day outside, sunny but not too hot, a light breeze ruffling at our hair.

“You should get back to the shop,” I point out after a long stretch of silence. “I’m not there to keep an eye on it.”

The look he gives me then is unreadable, and gone in a flash. “Right you are,” he says, straightening up tall. “Well, have a good day, Katniss.”

“Bye.” I set off for the path home, glancing back over my shoulder when I hear the bakery door creak open. He’s looking back at me, too. He waves, and I wave back, a shy smile creeping across my face.

It lingers all the way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! First off, thank you so much for your kudos & reviews! <3
> 
> Second - I hope you enjoyed the chapter! I guess I don't have much to say about this one? But I am PUMPED for some stuff that's coming up soonish. I've already written some parts that I'm really excited about and I can't wait to share them.
> 
> Third - come join the fun on tumblr! I'm "imloveleee". (Super creative, right.)
> 
> Fourth - if you find any spelling errors, continuity mistakes, etc etc, definitely feel free to let me know. I tend to post chapters as soon as I'm done writing them (after doing SOME editing, of course) but I'm not super thorough about the editing so corrections are always welcome...and as this story gets longer I'm getting worried that I'm making more mistakes, haha.


	20. twenty

Life in District 12 always settles back to normal pretty quickly after the Hunger Games end, and this year is no different. People don’t just fill in the gaps left by Astrid and Olli – they erase them. By now we’re all experts at covering up the holes, pretending there was nothing there to begin with.

Weeks pass. The day of the memorial service is the last time that I see Prim cry: fat, ugly tears, sobs that wrack her whole body. I’d tried to hug her, to shield her, but she’d curled away from me. I didn’t need to hear her say it because the curve of her spine was enough: _Leave me alone._

She’s not withdrawn, exactly; not the way our mother was. She gets out of bed in the morning and bathes. She feeds Lady and takes her on walks. She eats meals with us and even finishes them sometimes.

But there’s something missing. A lot of things, really: smiles, laughter, affection, warmth. Prim isn’t _Prim_ anymore.

She says she’s okay, and maybe she is. Maybe this is just Prim growing up – like Gale said months ago, that day in the woods.  She’s a teenager now. She’s going to have sullen moments. She’s going to snap at me on occasion. And sometimes, the embraces I offer as comfort will be seen as smothering instead.

I can’t help but feel, though, that this isn’t how things were supposed to be.

\---

“Good morning,” I greet Brody, shrugging out of my jacket to hang it up on the hook next to the back door. Summer is slowly, haltingly slipping into autumn, and in the early mornings, it’s too cool outside to make the trip into town without long sleeves.

Brody nods at me. “Hey –“

“Sorry! Sorry,” Peeta interrupts, stumbling into the kitchen from the second story. “I woke up late,” he continues, fastening the last few buttons on the bottom of his shirt. “Hey, Katniss.”

“Hi.” In vain, I fight back the little smile that creeps over my face – he looks amusing, all sleepy and disheveled.

Brody opens his mouth to speak, but Peeta cuts him off. “I know. I know what you’re going to say, and I’m on it.” He rummages through one of the shelves towards the back of the room, pulling out jars of food coloring and tucking them into the crook of his arm.

“You’re going to drop everything,” I sigh, hurrying towards him. “What’s going on?”

Peeta hands me a jar of blue coloring, then a red. “We’ve got that birthday cake today.”

Suddenly it clicks. “Oh no.” My shoulders shake with the effort of holding back a laugh. “Mrs. Loggins?”

“None other.” Peeta tilts his head towards the big table at the end of the room, where I hadn’t noticed three layers of yellow cake already set carefully on the cooling racks, waiting to be frosted. “Come on.”

Mrs. Loggins is the oldest living person in District 12 – one of the few to remember the Dark Days – and today is her eighty-fifth birthday. Not many people make it that far in District 12, so it’s certainly something to celebrate, no argument there. But when her son brought her into the bakery to order her cake last week, she was so persnickety and demanding that the moment the door shut behind her Brody wondered aloud how no one had suffocated the old woman in her sleep yet.

The cake she’d ordered was like something out of a Capitol television special: a triple-layer vanilla cake with an orange curd filling. Mr. Mellark had special-ordered four oranges from the Capitol just for the occasion, and after he’d squeezed all of their juices out, the four of us had shared the pulpy insides.

The sweet-sour taste had puckered my mouth and overwhelmed me with a memory of my father, years and years ago, bringing home the only orange I’d ever tasted in my life as a New Year’s treat. I’d run to the bathroom as soon as I felt the sharp, wet heat of tears pricking at my eyes, pretending I needed a drink to dilute the strong flavor.

I set the jars of food coloring down on the table and start to move away, but Peeta’s hand on my arm stops me. “Can you help frost?”

A beat passes, and I think he’s joking, but he only raises an eyebrow. “Seriously?” I finally say, ignoring the heat that tickles my skin where his fingers had touched. “I don’t even know how.”

Mrs. Loggins’ cake isn’t only an absurd extravagance for its rare ingredients; it’s also going to be the most ridiculously overblown cake ever decorated in District 12. Because it’s going to look like the _ocean._ Which no one in District 12 – except for Mrs. Loggins, who still remembers it fondly from her youth – has ever seen. 

“Please? I just need you to make the buttercream,” he insists, startling me with the real note of desperation in his voice. He’s asked for my help around the kitchen before, but I’ve never had the impression that he actually _needed_ it.  

Bewildered, I wave my hand towards Brody. “Why can’t he do it?”

Brody lifts a lump of dough in one hand and lets it drop to the tabletop with a loud _plop_. “Do I look like I can do it?”

I shoot him a glare before looking back at Peeta. “Where’s your dad?”

“He’s dealing with the supply orders today. Come on, it’s not _that_ bad working with me,” he jokes, unable to mask his strained tone.

“No, I know,” I mumble quietly. “Okay, but it’s not my fault if this thing looks hideous.”

“Never.” Peeta flashes me a quick grin, and I smile back hesitantly. My heart ticks faster with nervous energy, and something else I can’t quite identify.

The morning is exhausting: a whirlwind of whisks and butter and sugar, blue and yellow and green, punctuated by harried dashes to the front of the shop every time the customer bell rings. Peeta sets me to work whipping up the frosting while he experiments with the food dyes, trying to recreate the colors from the old picture book Mrs. Loggins’ son had brought with them – “ocean blue,” “sea green.”

We speak very little. Peeta reveals an intensity that I haven’t seen in him before – a sense of focus, of purpose – as he mixes the dyes in swirls of white frosting. My own task is repetitive and simple, so I watch him play with the colors, adding a drop of blue here, a drop of yellow there.

I see things that I’d never really noticed about Peeta: That his long, pale eyelashes are longer than any girl’s that I’ve seen. That his entire face goes still when he’s concentrating, except for a single muscle in his jaw, which jumps almost imperceptibly. That even though his hands are large and scattered with scars, they’re steady and almost graceful in their movements. 

I’m so caught up in watching Peeta’s hands that I jump when Brody clears his throat right in front of me, and the bowl in my hands slips from my fingers, clattering onto the table.

“Careful,” Brody says, giving me a look. He definitely saw me staring, but thankfully he doesn’t comment any further. “Mom will kill you if she sees you wasting that much food coloring,” he tells Peeta matter-of-factly, though he keeps his voice low.

Peeta looks back down at his dabs of frosting. He doesn’t answer, though I notice the muscle in his jaw twitch in response. “They’re paying a week’s worth of wages for this. I want to get it right,” he eventually says.

Brody shrugs. “I’m not arguing with you. But it’s almost nine o’clock and they’re coming to pick it up at one.”

Peeta still seems hesitant, and Brody sighs, pointing his finger firmly at one of the dabs of blue on Peeta’s makeshift palette. “This looks fine – great, I mean. It’s perfect. Use that one. Okay?”

“Alright,” Peeta grumbles. He reaches past me for a bowl of white frosting. Our eyes only meet for a moment, but a pang of sympathy hits me when I see how deflated he looks.

“That one looks like your eyes,” I blurt out, unable to stop myself. “Um, the color, I mean.”

Peeta’s mouth curves up in the hint of a smile. “Yeah?” He breathes in as though he’s about to say something, then stops himself.  “Hmm.”

“You know, I can take the front today, if you want,” Brody says suddenly. “Except for some cookies in the oven, this is all we have left to make today.”

My mouth falls open a little – Brody _hates_ working the cash register. I glance at Peeta, but he’s studiously focused on the bowl of frosting before him. “Why?”

Brody rolls his eyes, sighing heavily. “It’s always _why_ with you, isn’t it, Katniss?” he says. “Because I feel like being nice today. And Peeta might have a meltdown without his little helper. Take it or leave it.” 

“I’m not having a _meltdown_ ,” Peeta grumbles from beside me.

“Fine,” I tell Brody. There are worse things than essentially being handed a day off to sit and watch Peeta frost a cake. “Thank you,” I add begrudgingly.

“Anytime,” Brody replies. “Not really though. One time offer. Consider yourself lucky.” I don’t answer; I just make a face as he backs out of the room. Once he’s gone I turn my attention back to Peeta, and hop up to sit on the table about a foot away from where he’s working.

“You don’t actually need my help with this, do you?” I ask nervously. All three of the Mellarks agree that I’ve vastly improved at working in the kitchen – I can knead a ball of dough properly now, and when I scoop cookie dough onto the baking sheets, they come out evenly proportioned – but frosting a cake is another thing entirely.

“No,” Peeta says shortly, frowning a little as he spreads a thick glob of orange curd atop one of the cake layers. No explanation, no joke - it feels like a rebuff.

“Okay.” I watch as he carefully sets another layer atop the first. “I can switch back with Brody if…if you want.”

He doesn’t answer, absorbed in spreading the remaining orange curd on the second layer. I clear my throat and he startles, looking at me with wide eyes, as though he’d forgotten I was there. Although I have no right to be – and I’m not sure why – I’m annoyed.

“Um, it’s okay,” he says, blinking. “You don’t have to hang around if you don’t want to.”

I can tell that I’m being dismissed. “Okay,” I say, keeping my tone artificially light. “I’ll just see you tomorrow, then.”

“Okay, bye,” Peeta says absently, already focused back on the cake. I briefly consider telling Brody that I’m leaving, but decide Peeta can let him know. If he even realizes I’m gone.

\---

With my whole day now free, I seize the opportunity to head into the woods and hunt.

I haven’t been out here much in the past few months. Since before I can even remember, the woods have been my sanctuary, the place where I feel like myself, where I feel at home. The place that I know will never change, not at its core.  There will always be the rocks, the dirt, the trees. And the katniss plants, for which I’m named, burying their roots deep into the ground where no one can touch them. 

I was wrong, though. The impossible happened. The woods _did_ change. And it’s my fault.

I miss Gale.

I’ve seen him only twice since the night he kicked me out of his house. The first time, I was taking a trash bag out to the dumpster behind the bakery when he walked past, his game bag slung over his shoulder. For a split second, I’d started to lift my hand in a wave and call out _hello_. The look in his eyes stopped me. He disappeared around a corner before I could make a sound.

The second time was even worse. A young couple – Gale’s age, in fact – were married on a hot evening in August, and more than half the Seam showed up to celebrate that night in the meadow. My mother insisted on dragging Prim and me to the gathering, hoping the music and dancing and food would imbue some cheer back into Prim.

The Hawthornes were there, of course. Hazelle was chatting with a few other mothers, Vick was flirting with a girl, Rory was hopping around with Posy to the music. I didn’t see Gale at first, not until a loud _whoop_ sounded from a circle of dancers further off in the meadow. He was at the center, swinging around a dark-haired girl in time with the clapping of the crowd. I vaguely recognized her from school, a year or two ahead of me.

It wasn’t exactly jealousy that struck me then, but something close. _He’s_ my _best friend,_ a voice inside me screamed, until another drowned it out with the truth: _Not anymore._

 When the song ended the band struck up another tune immediately, but Gale pushed through the crowd, breathing heavily, probably in search of a drink. He locked eyes with me right away and stopped, his shoulders sagging just slightly.

I hated myself in that moment – that the mere sight of me could suck all the joy from his features that quickly.

“Hi,” I said.

He approached me warily. “Hi.”

“That was impressive,” I said, nodding towards the dancers, their bodies weaving around one another in an intricate pattern.

“Thanks.” Gale crossed his arms over his chest. “How are you?”

“Okay,” I told him. “You?”

He didn’t answer right away, instead shifting his gaze to something in the distance behind me. “I’m alright,” he said.

I breathed in deeply, knowing it was now or never. “Gale. I’m sorry –“

“I really don’t want to talk about this now,” he interrupted me firmly, meeting my eyes again. “I’m having a good time, okay? Let’s just…go have our own good times.”

“Oh – okay,” I said, grateful that the sun had set enough to hide the bright red flush surely spreading over my cheeks. “Okay.”

“Goodnight, Katniss,” he said and walked away.

And that was it. I told my mother that I had a stomachache, and Prim had chimed in that she was suffering a headache, and we went home.

It’s here in the woods that I feel the loss of him so acutely. I’ve come to realize that it’s not his kiss or his touch or his breath on my neck that I miss. I miss my hunting partner. I miss my _friend_. I miss the comfortable silence between us, and the way we moved in tandem through the woods, silent and sly. I miss his stupid jokes and the way he cares for Prim like she’s his own little sister. I even miss his rants against the Capitol.

I guess I should have thought about all that when I tried to join him on the path to something deeper – something more. It was a mistake, one I’ll likely regret for the rest of my life.

But it’s not a mistake I’ll make again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to Court81981 for beta-ing this chapter for me! :)
> 
> And huge thanks to everyone for your reviews and kudos! 
> 
> I know I've been talking a big game about being excited for what's coming up, and this chapter was probably a letdown in that sense. So here's what I'll say about the next chapter: We all make mistakes, Katniss! Sometimes you can't avoid it! Especially when there's booze involved!


	21. twenty-one

Peeta pulls me aside into the empty back office as soon as I arrive to work the next morning.

“I’m sorry for being a jerk yesterday,” he says sincerely. “I know you were just trying to help.”

“It’s fine,” I tell him. Even if it wasn’t, what else could I say? Peeta – and Brody, I suppose, in a weird way – are the only friends I’ve got at this point, if you can even call them that.

“You sure?” He looks genuinely worried, so I smile, patting his hand awkwardly to reassure him.

“Yeah. It’s okay.” His eyes flood with relief, but the tension in his jaw doesn’t relax. “Are _you_ okay?” I ask, unsure.

The look that washes over his face is nothing short of miserable. Peeta presses the heels of his hands over his eyes, and sighs. His hands fall away and he meets my gaze. “It’s just – we _never_ get to do something like that cake. That was a once-in-a-lifetime cake. And I just…fucked it up.”

“What happened?” I whisper. A thousand horrifying possibilities run through my head: Peeta dropping the cake, Peeta breaking the cake in half, Peeta spilling food coloring all over the cake…my heart nearly stops when it occurs to me that _I_ could’ve fucked it up, too. What if I’d used salt in the buttercream instead of sugar? Or cracked an egg in there while I wasn’t paying attention?

“I mean…nothing, really,” he says, quelling my fears. “I woke up late, I rushed through it, and it looked…fine.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” I say, not quite understanding why he’s still upset. “Did Mrs. Loggins like it?”

He shrugs, looking down at his hands. “I don’t know. Her son came to pick it up without her. But it could’ve been so much _more_ , you know? It wasn’t what I pictured at all.” He looks back up at me. “I just had this whole thing planned out in my head…I wanted it to look like waves crashing, like in the book they gave me. All those colors.”

I think of the picture book: the blue-green swirl of the sea, the white foam gathered at the crest of the wave. A shiver runs through me at the thought of it. My father taught me how to swim in a lake that’s out in the woods, about an hour’s walk from the fence, but the ocean is…it’s almost unfathomable.

“That sounds beautiful,” I say quietly.

“Yeah,” Peeta agrees sadly, and I realize for the first time that for Peeta, his work in the bakery isn’t just something he’s inherited from his family. Decorating the cakes isn’t just a fun way to pass the time. It _matters_ to him. That’s not something many people in District 12 can say about their livelihood.

“Next time,” I say, trying to sound encouraging.

He snorts. “There won’t be one. Not while I’m here, at least.”

The way he says it implies something odd. “What do you mean?”

Peeta shrugs. “I’m not going to work here forever.”

“Like…you’re going to get another job?” I ask, confused. “Why would you do that?”

“The bakery isn’t mine,” Peeta says seriously. “It’s Brody’s, if he wants it. Really it was Ned’s first, but he decided to work at the Justice Building.”

It had never occurred to me that Peeta Mellark wouldn’t grow up to spend the rest of his life working in his family’s bakery. But now that he’s said it aloud, I’m not sure how it didn’t occur to me before. Supporting their family of five is one thing, but if Brody and Peeta both marry and have children, there’s likely not enough business to sustain them all.

“Does Brody want it?” He must; he’s old enough that if he wanted a change of career, he would’ve done it by now.

Peeta shrugs. “I guess. We don’t really talk about it.” He pauses. “My parents say nothing’s official until he ‘settles down with a nice girl,’ anyway. And he hasn’t even looked at another girl since Ava, so…who knows.”

He looks down at his feet, wrapping his arms around his torso as though he were fending off a chill. A deep sympathy wells in my chest. For someone who gives so much of himself, Peeta doesn’t get much in return.

“But you want it,” I say softly.

His lips press together tightly before he answers, “More than anything.”

I search for something to say, but in a way it’s even harder to comfort Peeta than it was to comfort Prim – because he hasn’t really lost anything. Not yet, anyway. “I’m sorry,” I tell him.

Peeta looks up at the ceiling for a few seconds, blinking rapidly. In the faint light I think I see the shine of tears in his eyes, but it’s gone when he looks back down. “Thanks.”

Before I can second-guess myself, I slip my arms around his waist in a hug. His arms wrap around me immediately, pulling me into his chest, and I can feel the thrumming of his heartbeat where my cheek rests against the crook of his neck.

He’s solid, and incredibly warm. We stand like that, silent, for long seconds. I think back to the time he’d clumsily hugged me in the square, during the Hunger Games, and have to fight back a smile. This is a much better hug.

Peeta shifts eventually, sliding one hand just slightly up my back, and pulls his head back to look at me. He clears his throat lightly. “Hey. Katniss…”

And suddenly, the moment feels too intimate. Our faces are just inches apart; our bodies still pressed tightly together. I have the distinct sense that Peeta hasn’t actually shared his feelings about the bakery with anyone else before, and I’m not sure why he’d choose to share them with me. So I panic, and abruptly untangle myself from his arms.

“Um, I think we’d better get out there,” I say, brushing nonexistent dust from my shirt, avoiding his eyes.

He makes a weak attempt at a smile. “Yeah. Thanks again, Katniss.”

\---

Peeta’s admission bothers me all through my shift. If Brody does assume ownership of the bakery one day, where will that leave Peeta? I don’t think Brody would ever leave his brother out on the street, but if they both had wives and children to support, would he have any other choice?

Although it’s probably unfair, this new information alters my perception of Brody. It seems cruel, almost, to string Peeta along with the hope that Brody will bow out and take a different job like their eldest brother did. So when Brody blocks my exit at the end of the day, I’m not exactly in a mood to put up with it.

“Can you move?” I say sharply, crossing my arms over my chest.

Brody just raises an eyebrow in surprise, folding his own arms over his chest to mimic my own stance. “What are you doing Saturday night?” he asks casually.

 _Sitting in awkward silence with my mother and Prim_. _Skinning rabbits. Sleeping._ That would be the honest answer. But it’s also an embarrassing answer, and I’m too tired to come up with a lie, so I just tell him, “Nothing.”

 “Perfect. It’s my birthday, and I’m having a party. You should come.”

I freeze. That’s not what I was expecting. “Oh…I…can’t,” I say, trying to sound genuinely sorry as I attempt to edge around him towards the door.

Brody doesn’t budge an inch. “Why not? You just said you’re free.”

It’s times like these that I hate being such a bad liar. I definitely don’t have plans Saturday night, especially now that hanging out with Gale is no longer an option. “I just…look, I don’t know any of your friends. I wouldn’t know anyone. It would be weird,” I tell him honestly.

“I’ll be there,” Peeta pipes up from behind me. I turn to look at him, and he smiles brightly. I think again of this morning, how he’d been so close, and my stomach tightens for one brief, strange moment.

“I don’t know your friends, either,” I point out. It’s not entirely true – I know who they _are_ , having spent twelve years in school together – but I’ve never spoken a word to most of them.

“They won’t be there,” Brody says, very matter-of-fact. “They’re all mad at him for breaking Violet Plumwell’s heart.”

“Shut up, Brody,” Peeta snaps. He softens a little as he turns his attention back to me. “He never invites my friends, anyway. So I kind of need you to keep me company.”

I look back at Brody, narrowing my eyes. “I feel like you’re tricking me or something,” I tell him suspiciously.

He lays a hand over his chest, as though he’s been wounded. “Katniss. Come on. You don’t consider me a friend? After all this time?” I don’t answer, and the longer I’m silent the more dramatically he staggers, finally falling back against the door.

I roll my eyes. “Alright. Fine. If I say yes, will you let me go home now?”

“Only if you promise.”

“Okay, sure. I promise.”

Brody steps aside, sweeping his arm before the doorway. I brush past him with a glare.

\---

I actually forget about Brody’s invitation until the end of my shift that Saturday, when Peeta says, “See you tonight, Katniss.”

I stop in my tracks. “Hmm?”

“Brody’s birthday? You’re still coming, right?”

Well…damn. “Oh. Oh, right. Yeah, I am.”

He smiles. “Glad I reminded you.”

After that, the dread builds in my stomach all evening until I’ve nearly convinced myself that I’m too sick to go. But I have no way of telling the boys that I’d suddenly fallen ill in the few hours between work and their party – and I promised to come, after all.

I’ve never been to a Merchant party – never been _invited_ to one, even. The only parties I’ve ever really attended were celebrations in the Seam: big, family gatherings where everyone brought a dish to share, and the mothers gathered and gossiped, and the fathers passed around a bottle of white liquor and cracked jokes, and the children ran and screamed and played tag while the teenagers tried to sneak a swig of the liquor on the sly.

I have no idea what to expect out of Brody’s party…but definitely not that.

Prim mostly ignores me that evening, her nose buried in some old medical book as I make dinner and pull on clean clothes. I try braiding my hair in a fancier plait than usual, the way my mother does for special occasions, but I give up in frustration after an hour and too many pulled hairs to count. Whatever. It’s not like anyone there is going to care how I look.

It’s not until I’m lacing up my boots by the front door that night, about to leave, that Prim wanders to my side. “Where are you going?”

“Just some dumb party for Brody,” I mumble, double-knotting the laces.

“A party for Brody?” she repeats. “So like…a party with Merchant kids?”

I straighten up and shrug, acting more casual than I feel. “Yeah.”

She eyes my outfit critically. “You probably shouldn’t wear that.”

I follow her gaze down my front, from my black t-shirt to the loose brown pants tucked into my hunting boots. It’s a comfortable outfit, and clean – but I suppose I can see how it might not be the most appropriate for a party with people who haven’t spent the last decade on the edge of poverty. “Well, it’s not like I have a whole wardrobe to choose from,” I point out, a little testy.

Prim stares at my boots for a moment, lost in thought, then shakes her head. “Why don’t you just borrow one of Mother’s dresses?”

I make a face. “It’s not the Reaping, Prim.”

“She has plenty of dresses you could wear. Come on.”

Normally I’d just brush her off and leave dressed as I am. It’s not like I’m trying to impress anyone. But this Prim is much more pleasantthan the sullen version of her that’s been moping around lately, so I follow her obediently into our mother’s room.

Prim slides open the bottom drawer of Mother’s dresser and rummages through without hesitation. I shift impatiently behind her until she straightens up, a bundle of cloth in hand.

“Try this one,” she says, thrusting it at me.

I shake out the dress, holding it in front of me by the shoulders. The sleeves are about elbow-length, and the skirt looks like it will fall just above my knees. It’s a faded orange color, the fabric soft and worn from years of use.

“I’ll be cold,” I say in half-hearted protest.

Prim rolls her eyes. “Then wear your jacket over it.”

I don’t like the harsh edge to her tone, but I decide to let it go. “Okay. Thanks, Prim.”

“Sure.” She shrugs, leaving the room so I can change in privacy. “Have a good time.”

\---

The weather is a little warmer than I’d expected, so I leave my hunting jacket on its hook by the door and head towards the park, my skirt fluttering around my knees in the light breeze.

I see the bonfire before I see Brody or any of his guests. I knew there was a fire pit in the park, but until now I’d only seen it lit during the Victory Tour “celebration” they throw each year for the latest Hunger Games victor. I wonder where Brody got the firewood to light it.

At the edge of the park, I stop. There are about two dozen people gathered, broken out into little groups around the bonfire, and none of them have noticed me yet. I could leave right now, and just tell Peeta and Brody that I’d fallen sick. They probably won’t even notice that I didn’t show up.

Just as I start to turn away, a voice rings out from the darkness. “Katniss!”

It’s Peeta. He strides towards me, his face stretched into a big smile. He looks handsome in a blue sweater, the color setting off his eyes even in the fading light.

“Hey,” he says loudly, slowing to a stop before me. “I’m so glad you came.”

His hands are empty, but I can tell from the swing in his step and the goofy grin on his face that he’s had at least a drink or two already. Nothing near Haymitch Abernathy territory, but enough that he’s a little looser than usual. “Well, I’d hate to disappoint Brody.”

“Hah. Yeah.” His eyes drift down to my outfit. “You look great,” he says simply.

I look away, feeling self-conscious. “I thought I’d be overdressed,” I admit.

“Nah. Brody’s friends love any excuse to get dressed up that doesn’t also involve their names in a bowl.”

I don’t laugh at the joke. I know that for most people who age out of the Reaping, it’s natural to make light of the Games – a way to cope with the fact that for seven years you spend every day knowing it might be the year you die…and then suddenly, you don’t anymore. But I can’t do it – especially not with Prim still in the Reaping. To his credit, Peeta seems to realize this and quickly changes the subject.

“I’m glad you came,” he says again. “Brody’s friends still all act like I’m a little kid.”

I scan the small clusters of people around Brody, recognizing only a few faces. “See, I don’t know anyone,” I tell him.

“Well, I’ll introduce you.” When I don’t follow him, Peeta takes my hand and tugs me after him. “Come on.”

I’m too surprised to pull away, and I let him lead me towards the group. “Did you know orange is my favorite color?” he asks, nodding towards my dress.

“No,” I say, but he just flashes me a grin. I feel my face grow hot, and he gives my hand a quick squeeze before pulling away just as we reach Brody and his friends.

“Katniss!” Brody bursts out, and it’s all he needs to say for me to see that he’s drunk. A few of the friends gathered around him turn to look at me, curious. It’s his twenty-first birthday, so they’re all a few years older than me, though some of them look vaguely familiar.

“Happy birthday, Brody,” I say, waving awkwardly.

“Thank you!” he exclaims. “Do you have a drink? Someone get this girl a drink. She deserves it. You de _serve_ it, Katniss.”

A large paper cup seems to appear in my hand out of nowhere, though it’s probably from the curly-haired blonde girl smiling brightly at me from Brody’s side. I exchange a wide-eyed look with Peeta, and it takes everything in me not to burst into laughter. “You heard him. You deserve it, Katniss,” Peeta repeats, faux-serious, trying to suppress a grin.

I take a tentative sip of the drink, pleased to find that it’s sweeter than I expected, and nothing like the beer I’d tried at Gale’s insistence last summer during a Seam party. He was always one of the kids trying to sneak a sip of white liquor, and I was always one of the ones refusing to touch a drop. But that night I’d been so exhilarated from dancing that I’d grabbed a bottle of ale right out of his hands and taken a big swig – much to the disappointment of my taste buds.

My next drink is longer, and I shiver in pleasure at the warm, full feeling that the liquid leaves in my stomach. No one is looking at me anymore, except for Peeta, so I turn to him and shrug. “Well?”

He shrugs back. “What?”

“What do you do at these things?”

“At a party, you mean? Get drunk, mostly.” He laughs when I wrinkle my nose.

Peeta leads me away to a picnic table near the rose bushes, where bottles of liquids I don’t recognize are tucked beneath the wooden bench in a sloppy attempt at discretion. “Isn’t this a little…obvious?” I say, gesturing towards the stash.

Peeta chuckles knowingly as he bends down to grab a bottle of beer. “Yeah. You know that red-headed Peacekeeper, the young one? He patrols this area on the weekends and he’ll turn a blind eye, long as you bring a bottle of liquor for him.”

I do know the man he’s describing – his name is Darius, and he’s one of the only Peacekeepers whose mere presence doesn’t make my skin crawl. He’s a familiar face around the Hob, and I’m not all that surprised to learn that he’s willing to break the rules for a drink or two.

“Where’d you all even get this from?” I ask, genuinely curious. The only place I know of where you can buy alcohol is the Hob, and there’s no way the Mellark boys do their shopping at the Hob.

“The Hob,” Peeta says casually. I eye him skeptically.

“Really?”

“What, you think I’m too chicken to go to the Hob?” he says, dangling his bottle by its neck between his fingers.

I’m not convinced. “I didn’t say that. But…really?”

“Okay, maybe Brody’s friend Wyatt bought the beer,” he admits. “But I’ve been to the Hob.” Peeta takes a sip of his drink, averting his eyes. “When I was fifteen. On a dare.”

I laugh loudly at his confession, surprising even myself, and Peeta rests his fingers on the side of my cup, peering over the edge. “How much have you got in there?”

I pull back. “Enough.”

“Too much,” he says with a laugh, and before I can protest he tips my drink, emptying half of the contents onto the ground. “I don’t want you getting drunk tonight.”

It’s not that _I_ particularly want to get drunk, but why would Peeta care? I narrow my eyes, clutching the cup to my chest. “Why not?”

He shrugs, taking another swig. “I have my reasons.”

“How mysterious,” I say drily, but Peeta just laughs again. “I guess you don’t care if _you_ get drunk.”

His lips quirk down as though he’s trying to contain his smile. “No. I might need to, actually.”

Whatever that means. “You’re weird,” I tell him pointedly.

He laughs shortly. “Yeah, maybe. You want to go sit down?”

I shrug, but follow him to a bench all the way on the other side of the park, where it’s quiet.

For a few minutes we sit in silence, watching Brody’s friends chatter and laugh and tease one another at the other side of the park. Watching them together, a pang of loneliness strikes me; I’ve never been part of a group like that. I never thought I even wanted to be. But the truth is, I miss Gale. I miss Madge. I miss Prim, the way she used to be, before she turned sad and sullen.

Part of me wonders if that’s why I’ve grown to feel more comfortable with Peeta in such a short amount of time. Without him, I’d be completely, utterly alone.

But another part of me says that that’s wrong – that it’s not just that Peeta has been here for me during a time when no one else was. I really, genuinely like him. Maybe this friendship we’ve struck up would have happened all along.

I sneak a glance at him, only to find him looking right back at me. His eyes are steady on mine, and serious.

A tiny shiver runs through me, and I force my eyes away, looking down to pick at a stray thread on my dress. “Something wrong?”

“No,” he says, and when I glance back at him again he’s turned his attention to his beer, which is nearly empty. He’s acting strangely. Maybe he had more to drink before I arrived than I’d originally thought.

“So…when’s your birthday?” I ask, not entirely comfortable with the odd silence that’s settled over us. I lift my cup to my mouth and pretend to take a long sip, hiding my embarrassment. This is why I don’t initiate conversations. I have no idea what to say.

“November 9th.”

“That’s kind of soon,” I point out. “Are you going to have a party like this?”

Peeta scrunches his face up thoughtfully. “Mm, nah. Probably not.” He bumps my shoulder with his own. “When’s _your_ birthday?”

“May 8th,” I reply. “Why no party?”

He sighs, tipping the last of his drink into his mouth. “I mean, what Brody said about my friends wasn’t… _totally_ untrue.”

“They’re mad at you?”

Peeta shrugs, noncommittal. “Yeah, kind of. I wasn’t really the greatest boyfriend in the world to Violet.”

I feel very hot all of a sudden. The natural question – _why?_ – is on the tip of my tongue, but I catch myself just in time. I know why he wasn’t the greatest boyfriend. It’s because he still liked _me_ when he was dating Violet.

“That seems silly,” I mumble. “You didn’t do anything to them.”

“They’re just being good friends,” he says. “I’d probably feel the same way if it had been someone else.”

“Well. I’ll come to your party,” I blurt out. Instantly I flush. I guess the half-cup of whatever it is I’ve been nursing loosened my lips a little more than I thought.

But Peeta just grins. “Yeah? Maybe I’ll have to have one, then.”

The bench creaks as I stand. My legs are a little wobbly, though I’m not positive that it’s an effect of the alcohol alone. “Thirsty,” I tell Peeta, waving my cup side to side before I turn and practically power walk back to the picnic table where all the drinks are stashed.

“Wait.” Peeta jogs after me a few steps, and I slow, letting him catch up. He falls into pace beside me, but says nothing.

There’s a game going on now by the picnic table, something I don’t understand involving a deck of cards and a coin Brody’s constantly flipping. All I know is that Peeta and I get sucked into it, too, and before long I’ve indulged in a beer of my own.

I’m not drunk, I don’t think; I’m not dizzy or stumbling around. I just feel _good_. Light, happy, carefree…the way an eighteen-year-old who has a whole life ahead of her should feel. I’m not thinking about my family, or Gale, or whether there’s enough money to buy Prim the shoes she needs to start school next week. I’m just thinking about this moment – these people, this park – and how wonderful it is to be in it.

At some point I walk away and settle onto the ground next to the dying embers of the bonfire, content to watch the party go on, instead of partaking in it myself. The grass is cool and prickles against my skin, but I feel warm all over. I tip my head back, staring up at the sky, where stars shine against the deep blackness like snowflakes on coal dust.

I don’t know how much time passes, but eventually someone joins me, dropping heavily to my right. Peeta. He flops backwards with a sigh, his arm flung out behind me.

I turn my head and tuck my chin against my shoulder, eyeing him. “Someone had too much to drink,” I say, surprised by the teasing lilt in my own voice.

“Me? Nah.” He brushes the accusation away with a wave of his hand. He reaches up and tugs gently at the end of my braid. “C’mere. It’s nice down here.”

I settle back further, propped up on my elbows, but they start to ache against the hard ground and lay back. My head bumps against his forearm. “Sorry,” I mutter, but he edges closer so that my head is resting on the taut muscle of his bicep.

“S’okay,” he says. His fingers brush gently down my shoulder before coming to rest in the grass beside me.

Although there’s laughter and shouting in the distance, the night feels suddenly, intensely quiet. The heat radiating off of Peeta is almost stronger than that of the charred wood gradually cooling beside us in the fire pit. My heart is racing, though I’m not sure why.

“I’m really glad you came tonight,” he says, turning his head to face me.

 “You already said that,” I tease, laughing a little. A smile flickers across his face, but his expression is one of intent focus – the way he’d looked when he was working on the ocean cake.

“Because it’s true,” he says.

I turn away, embarrassed. “It’s probably really late,” I say after a pause. I should be getting home.

Peeta doesn’t answer. Instead he reaches over with his free arm and grasps my hand, tugging me in towards him.

I let him pull me in. My feet bump against the toes of his shoes; his arm curves gently around my waist, his hand resting lightly between my shoulder blades. Our faces are tilted together so close I can feel his breath on my forehead.

Peeta nudges at my forehead with his chin, and I raise my head, meeting his gaze. He just smiles at me softly, his eyes running over my face, my hair. His hands follow: first the left, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear, then the right, coming up to cradle my face gently.

I know what he’s doing. I just can’t quite believe it’s happening.

Peeta leans forward, and kisses me.

It’s soft, but firm, and over so quickly that when he pulls back I’m not positive it even happened. He looks down at me, his fingers flexing slightly where they’re buried in my hair, his eyes unfocused and unsure.

He’s waiting for me to say something, I can tell. _Kiss me, Peeta_ , or _Back off, asshole._ But forming the words is too great a challenge for my mind right now, let alone my lips.

So I do the only thing I can. I lean in and kiss him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL. I hope that was worth the wait :-P haha
> 
> I know I don't normally post chapters so soon after one another, but I was excited to finally post this, so yeah. I should note that I'm going to be out of the country on vacation during the first 2 weeks in April, so sadly no updates then, but I'll try to have the next chapter up before I leave.
> 
> Anyway - hope you enjoy, and I'd love to know what you think! THANK YOU FOR READING!!


	22. twenty-two

I can feel him twitch in surprise, but Peeta responds almost immediately, opening his mouth to deepen the kiss. His hand snakes down over my shoulder, coming to rest around my waist, and he pulls me in closer, our hips bumping together awkwardly.

My head is buzzing, my thoughts evaporating into nothing but Peeta’s lips, Peeta’s hands, Peeta’s tongue. In this moment, he’s everything.

I’ve finally got the answer to the question that popped into my head all those months ago. Kissing Peeta is _nothing_ like kissing Gale.

When his teeth bite down gently on my lower lip, I can’t stop the squeaking noise that rises from the back of my throat, and Peeta breaks away, a quiet laugh escaping him. “Katniss,” he breathes, nuzzling at the soft skin just below my ear.

His hands are warm on my back, absently stroking up and down, and I suddenly become aware of my own hands. They’re clenched against his chest, the fabric of his sweater bunched up between my fingers. I loosen them slowly, embarrassed, and let them drop awkwardly to the grass.

Peeta pulls away slightly, lifting his head from my neck to look me in the eye. “Um,” he says. “Was that…okay?”

I lick my lips, my mind racing for an answer. All I know for sure right now is that I can’t concentrate with his fingers skimming against my back like that, back and forth, sliding dangerously close to the curve of my ass. I struggle for a moment to push myself upright, steadying myself on one hand.

“Yeah,” I tell him. “It was okay.”

His face freezes. “Just okay?” he says lightly.

“No, it was – good,” I say haltingly, avoiding his gaze. I watch his hands: they flex in the grass as he props himself up next to me. _His hands were just on me._ The thought sends a jolt of heat through straight to my core.

Peeta smiles a little as he reaches out to trail his fingers down my forearm. He tangles them with my own fingers, and I let him, unsure what to do.

“I like you so much,” he admits, looking down at our hands. In the dark you can’t tell that his are so much paler than mine, that we’re Merchant and Seam, that we don’t really belong together.

I don’t say a word, but he continues. “I think about you all the time. That probably sounds creepy, sorry, but I do. I just really, really, really like you.” We’re quiet together for a long moment, until he asks, “Will you say something?”

“I don’t know what to say,” I tell him honestly, my voice catching. I feel like my body is the rope in a tug-of-war; half of it is drawn back to the Seam, to my home and my bed, while the other wants fresh air, open sky, Peeta.

“You could just kiss me instead,” he says, grinning, and I want to – _I want to_ , I can’t admit that out loud, but I can admit it to myself, here in the dark and quiet with alcohol still buzzing through my veins – but I can’t. _I can’t_.

I lean back as he leans in, and his eyes flash with hurt. “I have to go home,” I say shakily. “Thank you for inviting me.”

I wobble a little as I stand. He’s beside me in an instant, a steady hand on my wrist, though I know he’s drunker than I am. “Let me walk you home,” he says, all trace of teasing gone from his voice.

“No, I’m fine.” I shake my head, the lightheadedness already gone. It’s not so different from the days when I was younger, when I’d stand up and feel dizzy with hunger. It passes. Everything passes, eventually.

“Katniss, please.” He sounds tired, but firm.

I don’t want to argue. I just want to get home, crawl into bed, and…not sleep. I won’t be able to sleep. But think. “Fine.”

We walk together in silence. As we draw closer to home a deep chill runs through me, and I shiver, wrapping my arms around my torso. Peeta pulls his sweater off and hands it to me wordlessly. I almost hand it back, but I really am cold, and I tug it over my head. The sleeves are too long, dangling past my fingertips.

I’m about to thank him when Peeta says, voice tight, “Did I do something wrong?”

The question startles me. “What do you mean?”

His eyes are downcast, and he kicks idly at a rock in the path. “I mean you kissed me, and then it’s like…you won’t even look at me.”

He sounds so hurt, so raw, that I don’t _want_ to look at him. But then I’d be proving him right. We lock eyes, both slowing our footsteps in sync. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Peeta nods a little, looking back down at the ground. “So you just don’t like me,” he says, so quietly I barely hear him.

“Peeta –“

“It’s okay. It’s fine,” he says quickly. “I mean – I gave it a shot. I can’t hold it against you. I can’t expect you to just –“

Without thinking, I step towards him and stand on my tiptoes, pressing my mouth against his firmly. He falls still, and I hear a sharp intake of breath when I pull away.

“I like you, okay?” I say. “I just – I don’t know. I didn’t want…” I sigh in frustration. “It wouldn’t work.”

And with that, I turn and run, not stopping until I’ve collapsed against my front door.

\---

I sit on the front step for what must be an hour, trying to sift through my jumbled thoughts. At least the run sobered me up, I think ruefully. Part of me expects to see Peeta appear around the bend of the road that leads towards town, but he never comes.

I can’t believe he kissed me. I can’t believe that I kissed him back. And then kissed him _again._

What was I thinking? It’s not fair to Peeta. It’s not fair to either of us. The wreckage of my relationship with Gale is proof of what I’ve always known, deep down: I’m not meant to be with another person like that. I’m not built that way.

Eventually I pull myself to my feet, entering the house and then my bedroom as quietly as possible. It’s useless – Prim shifts in the bed as I tiptoe towards the dresser, blinking at me sleepily in the dim moonlight that streams through the window. “What time is it?”

“Late,” I say quietly. “Go back to sleep.”

“What are you _wearing_?”

Peeta’s sweater, I realize in dismay. I fumble for a lie but come up short. “It’s Peeta’s. I was cold,” I say defensively.

“You’re wearing Peeta’s _clothes?_ ” There’s a flash of the old Prim in her voice. “Oh my god. Did something happen with Peeta?”

I hesitate. I absolutely don’t want to discuss what happened tonight with Prim. But if it perks her up like this…if it helps bring _my_ Prim back…maybe it’s worth the embarrassment.

“Maybe,” I hedge.

“Katniss!” she squeaks, loud enough to hear through the wall. I hush her, pressing a finger to my lips. “ _Katniss_ ,” she repeats, in a whisper this time.

I pull Peeta’s sweater off and fold it carefully on top of the dresser before pulling down the zipper of my dress. I didn’t realize how much it smelled like him – like grass and flour and _boy_ – until I took it off. I feel suddenly bare without it.

“I think I see a hickey on your neck,” Prim says accusingly, and I just roll my eyes as I pull on a nightshirt. Peeta’s lips hardly touched my neck tonight. Though when they did, just barely brushing against my skin – _No._ I can’t think about that.

“No you don’t,” I tell her, slipping beneath the covers next to her. “And shut up, Mother will hear you.”

She squints, studying my neck. “Okay, maybe not. But you have to tell me what happened.”

A deep sigh escapes me, and I bury my face in my pillow, mumbling my answer.

“What?”

I turn my head towards her. “He kissed me.”

“I _knew_ it!” she crows, slapping a hand over her mouth when I give her a warning look. “I knew he liked you,” she whispers through her fingers. “Did you kiss him back?”

I nod mutely.

“So you like him? What about Gale?”

My stomach sinks a little at the mention of Gale – it just reminds me that things can’t progress any further with Peeta. “Nothing about Gale,” I say, rolling away from her. “He hasn’t even spoken to me in a month.”

 “Are you going to date Peeta?”

I knew she’d come to that question eventually, but I hadn’t expected it to hit me the way it does, like a punch in the gut. “No,” I tell her.

 “Why not?” Prim sounds genuinely confused. When you’re fourteen, I guess it’s not that complicated. If you like someone enough to kiss them, you like them enough to date them. I’m glad that despite everything she’s gone through, she’s still innocent in _that_ sense.

I clench my jaw, trying to will away the tears welling in my eyes, but one drips down my cheek onto the pillowcase anyway. I don’t even know why I’m crying. This must be what happens when you’re coming off of an alcohol high. You get unnaturally emotional.

“It doesn’t matter,” I say harshly. “I’m really tired, okay? Go to sleep.”

“Okay,” she whispers, chastened. “Goodnight, Katniss.” A pause, then, “I love you.”

My tears spill over the edge. “I love you, too,” I whisper back.

\---

The sun is already high in the sky by the time I wake up; Prim is gone, the sheets tucked up carefully on her side of the bed. My heart races for a moment when I think I’m late for work, but then I remember that it’s my day off, and I calm down.

_Then_ I remember what happened with Peeta last night, and I panic all over again.

In the daylight it seems so much worse. My head is throbbing for some reason, and my mouth tastes terrible. I enter the kitchen in search of some water and find Prim and Mother sitting at the table, looking at me expectantly.

“Um, good morning,” I say.

“Looks like someone had a late night,” Mother says.

I narrow my eyes at my sister. “Prim!”

“I didn’t say anything!” she insists.

“I heard you come in last night,” Mother says. She pushes a glass on the table towards me. “Drink this. You’ll feel better.”

I eye the glass suspiciously. “What is it?”

“It’s just an herbal drink. It’ll help your hangover.”

“ _Prim._ ”

“ _I didn’t –_ “

“Your sister just told me you were at a party last night, Katniss, that’s all,” Mother interrupts. “I know what goes on at Merchant parties. I used to go to them myself.”

I grab the glass with a huff and choke down the liquid inside, nearly gagging at the taste. Mother and Prim can hardly contain their amusement, so I just glare at them as I drop the empty glass in the sink. “I’m going to the woods,” I announce with a scowl.

It’s a perfect day for a hunt, the sun bright, a cool breeze rustling the leaves just enough to cover the sound of my own soft footsteps. I take out one, two, three squirrels in no more than thirty minutes, and I’m looking for a comfortable tree to relax in when I stumble across one of Gale’s traps.

The rabbit dangles by its neck, spinning in slow circles from the snare. It must be a fresh catch, if it’s still moving like that. My mind skitters suddenly, searching for the day of the week, and just as I realize it’s a Sunday –

“Stealing is punishable by death, you know.” I jerk away from the rabbit, seized by momentary terror. My pulse doesn’t slow down when I see Gale emerge from the bushes. “Still haven’t learned, I see.”

I swallow heavily, gripping my game bag tightly in my hands. “Hi. I didn’t, um, I didn’t realize it was Sunday.”

Gale just shrugs, moving past me to cut the rabbit free from the snare. “I don’t own this place.”

I watch as he cuts his catch loose, wrapping it in cloth before placing it inside his bag. “How are you?” I ask hesitantly.

“Fine,” he says, his back still turned toward me. “And you?”

“Okay.”

“You dating that baker kid yet?”

I freeze. How does he know? How could he _possibly_ know? Was Gale at the party? Did he see us walking home? “What?”

He takes one look at me and barks out a laugh. “It was a joke, but judging by your face right now I’m onto something.”

“N-no,” I stammer out. I can feel my face growing red, and the knowledge that I’m blushing just makes it redder. “Don’t be stupid.”

“Too late,” Gale mutters, pulling himself up into the tree easily with one arm. He leans out to where the snare was tied to a branch and snaps it free with his knife.

“Can we talk?” I blurt out. “I’m really…I miss you.”

Gale hops back down to the ground lightly, barely making a sound as he lands. I’m still stunned, sometimes, by how quiet he can be out here. He studies me, his face impassive. “Miss me how?” he finally asks.

I frown, not understanding. “What do you mean?”

“You miss me like you want to be with me again?”

Oh. I look away. “No,” I admit.

He sighs. “I figured.” He picks up his game bag from the forest floor and slings it over his shoulder. He stops beside me. “I’m not ready to talk yet. But…when I am, I’ll let you know.”

I guess that’s all I can really ask from him. “Okay.” I watch him leave; one moment he’s here, the next he’s vanished behind a wall of leaves. The woods fall silent again, the only sound the birds and the breeze and my own beating heart. It’s like he was never here at all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I'm so sorry I left you hanging for so long, especially after such a big move from Peeta in that last chapter. Next chapter won't take a whole month, I promise. Thanks for sticking with me! :)


	23. twenty-three

Not long after Gale disappears, I pull myself up into a tree and curl up against the trunk, wrapping my jacket around me like a blanket. It’s not quite fall yet, but soon the leaves will begin to turn and dot the foliage with bright red and yellow.

The animals will start preparing themselves for hibernation soon, too. But for the first time in many years, I won’t spend the cool autumn days running myself ragged as I try to store up on as much meat as possible before the long, sparse winter. This year, the money I make at the bakery – along with whatever my mother brings in from her healing work – will be enough to support us.

Knowing that we need the money is the only thing that’s going to drag me through the bakery’s back door tomorrow morning.

I let my head drop back against the tree trunk with a soft groan. What am I going to say to Peeta tomorrow? _Sorry I ran away from you last night, but the fact that I like kissing you completely terrifies me?_

The answer still eludes me the next morning, and I walk to the bakery a little slower than usual, dreading what might happen when Peeta and I come face to face. His blue sweater from the party is tucked under my arm, making matters even worse, because when I give it back we’ll have to acknowledge what happened.

Peeta’s alone in the kitchen when I enter through the back door, kneading a ball of dough. He looks up at me and smiles. “Hey, good morning.”

“Good morning.” I hesitate, then walk over to the other side of the table and hold up his sweater. “Um, here’s your sweater.”

“Oh, thanks.” Peeta looks down at his hands, covered in flour and bits of dough. “Sorry, I’m a mess. You can just drop that on a chair or something.”

“Okay.” My shoulders tense as I walk away to place the sweater on a chair in the back of the room. Any minute now, he’ll bring up the kissing. I know it.

“You’re lucky you weren’t here yesterday,” he says, the sound of dough slapping onto the tabletop punctuating his words. “Brody was so hungover he threw up on a sheet of cookies.”

A gasp escapes me, and I clap my hands over my mouth. “Oh no. Seriously?”

Peeta laughs, shaking his head. “Yeah, seriously. It was so gross. You should’ve seen my dad’s face.”

I laugh, imagining Mr. Mellark’s reaction. “Ugh. Poor Brody. Where is he?”

Peeta looks at me over his shoulder with a wide grin. “The flour shipments come in today, so as punishment he gets to bring them home all by himself. Without the cart.”

“Ouch.”

“Whatever, he’s an idiot.” Peeta continues to toss the dough cheerfully, and I watch him for a few moments. The back of his neck glistens with sweat, and his white t-shirt sticks to his upper back so that I can see his shoulder muscles flex as he works the dough. It’s oddly mesmerizing.

Thankfully, Peeta’s dad enters the kitchen a few seconds later, breaking me from my trance before Peeta himself can realize that I’m just standing here, staring. “Hey, Katniss,” he greets me, pulling an apron off a hook on the wall by the staircase.

“Hi,” I say with a little wave. I move quickly towards the front of the room. “Sorry. I’ll get out there and open up.”

“No rush, you’re right on time,” he says. “Did you have a good time at the party this weekend? I hope my sons didn’t embarrass themselves too much.”

I can’t help it. I look at Peeta. His eyes lock with mine before they dart away again. There’s no stopping the hot blush that blooms on my cheeks.

“No,” I say. “No one embarrassed himself.”

Peeta’s gaze stays steadily trained on the dough in his hands. 

“I might believe that about this one,” Mr. Mellark says, oblivious to the thick tension that’s suddenly settled between Peeta and me. “But his brother. Hoo boy.”

I force a smile. “Well…you know. Birthdays,” I say lamely. Mr. Mellark just hums in agreement, and I excuse myself to the front of the shop.

I switch on the cash register and rest my head in my arms on the countertop, letting out a deep sigh. So. My first encounter with Peeta, post-kiss, and I managed to avoid the topic almost entirely. Not bad.

Now I’ve just got to keep doing the same thing, every single day, until one of us quits the bakery or dies.

\---

The Mellarks don’t need my help in the kitchen today, and business is steady in the front of the shop, so I don’t see much of Peeta that day until my shift is over and it’s time to go home. “See you tomorrow,” I say quickly, making a beeline for the back door.

“See you,” Peeta echoes.

“What, I don’t get a hello?” I hear Brody call after me. I hadn’t even noticed that he’d made it home with his bags of flour.

“Hello, Brody,” I sigh, pausing with my hand on the doorknob. I look at him expectantly, but he says nothing. “What?”

He shrugs. “That’s all. Just wanted to say hi.”

I roll my eyes and leave.

Prim is on the sofa with a book in her lap when I get home, but she snaps it shut immediately the moment she sees me walk through the door. “Did you talk to Peeta?” she demands.

“Prim,” I groan, slipping my shoes off by the door. Secretly, though, I’m a little pleased – this is the most enthusiastic greeting she’s given me in weeks. For now I’ll ignore the fact that it’s just because she wants to gossip about what passes for my love life.

“Katniss, come on,” she whines. “I’ve been waiting all day for you to get home.”

“Maybe that’s a sign you need to get out more,” I say lightly, flashing a grin to let her know I’m just joking.

“What’s this about Peeta?” Mother emerges from her bedroom, tying her hair back in a ponytail.

Prim shoots me a guilty look, eyes wide, and I narrow my eyes in warning. For once, she takes it. “He told Katniss they might want to buy some goat cheese. For a new…thing they’re making. At the bakery.”

“Oh. That’s nice of him,” Mother says, sounding pleased. She grabs a small jar of something white and powdery from the kitchen cupboard, dropping it into a leather knapsack she often brings with her on quick medical visits. “I’m bringing the Hawthornes’ something for Posy’s cold if you’d like to come, Katniss.”

“Nope,” I say immediately. She sighs.

“I really think if you two would just sit down and talk to one another –“

“He _doesn’t want to talk to me_ ,” I tell her for what feels like the thousandth time. “I’ve tried. He’s not interested.”

Mother shakes her head. “It’s a shame. You two were such good friends.”

I say nothing. We were. And then I ruined it.

The moment Mother leaves the house, Prim turns on me again. “Okay, she’s gone. Now tell me.”

I drop down onto the sofa beside her, propping my feet up on the coffee table. “There’s nothing to tell. Seriously,” I add when she gives me a look of disbelief. “He didn’t even bring it up.”

“He didn’t bring up the fact that he _kissed_ you? That’s crazy.”

I shrug. “It’s fine with me. It’s not like we’re going to date or something.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Prim says shortly, frowning down at her book. “He’s really nice, and I know you like him. You should give him a chance.”

I purse my lips, unhappy with the serious turn our teasing has suddenly taken. “It’s not that simple.”

“Because you don’t want it to be,” she shoots back.

“What?” I cross my arms over my chest, defensive. “I – look at what happened with me and Gale. He won’t even speak to me. I don’t want that to happen with Peeta, too.”

Prim doesn’t answer, then suddenly drops her book on the coffee table with a heavy thud. “I’m taking Lady for a walk,” she says, pushing my legs out of the way from where they’re resting on the tabletop. For a moment I just watch her in shock. Is she _angry_ at me? Over _Peeta_?

“Prim,” I say sharply, but she ignores me and walks outside, slamming the door shut behind her.

\---

Prim is testy with me for the rest of the day, deflecting my attempts at dinnertime conversation and rolling away from me when I climb into bed beside her. By the time I wake up the next morning her bad mood has rubbed off on me, and I barely offer Peeta and Brody a greeting when I get to work. I even stay out front to eat my lunch, sitting on the ground with my back propped against the wall beside the swinging door.

As I’m finishing off the last of my sandwich, the door swings forward and Brody lowers himself to the floor beside me. Annoyed, I scoot to the side, putting at least a foot of space between us.

“How’s it going?” he says casually.

“Fine.”

“Doesn’t sound fine.”

I stare down at my fingers, playing with the end of my braid. “My sister’s mad at me,” I grumble.

“Why?”

I glance at him, hesitant. Even if he’s annoying and melodramatic 90 percent of the time, Brody can be very disarming when he wants to be. Must run in the family. “I don’t know. Because…I don’t want to date anyone, or something. It doesn’t make any sense.”

Brody just nods, looking thoughtful. “Katniss,” he finally says, sounding as though he’s about to choose his words carefully. “Have you ever thought that…maybe it’s hard for her, to see you turn someone down like that, when she can’t even have a chance at it herself?”

I frown. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…it sucks to see two people who _want_ to be together _not_ be together for some stupid reason,” he says, “When you’d give anything to have someone like that.”

He can only be talking about Peeta and me. Did Peeta tell him about our kiss? Does it even matter? Brody would’ve figured it out anyway after another day or two of watching us circle awkwardly around one another.

And he’s right, of course. Of course Prim would be frustrated by my inaction. The girl she loves is gone forever; the possibility of finding another, almost nonexistent here in District 12.

But Peeta’s made it clear that he wants me, and even though I might want him, too, I’m still turning him away. _I_ know I have my reasons, but Prim’s too young – her mind still too clouded with grief – to understand them.

“That makes sense,” I mumble quietly. I shoot him a look. “You’re weirdly smart about these things, you know.”

He laughs a little. “No, just all too familiar with them,” he says.

My forehead creases slightly. “What do you mean?” It hits me. “Oh. Is it Ava?”

Brody looks at me sharply. “Who told you about Ava?”

“Peeta,” I say, though I feel a little bad for giving him away. “He didn’t mean to. You were just acting a little emotional one day and he thought that was why.”

“Hm. Interesting.” He shakes his head, like he’s clearing bad thoughts away. “No, not Ava. Um.” Brody shifts uncomfortably, bending his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. He rests his chin on one knee and looks me in the eye. “You any good at keeping secrets?”

I pause before answering. “Sure,” I finally say. The only secrets I really have to keep are my own, but it’s not like I have many people to run my mouth to in the first place.

“Well…” Brody sucks in a deep breath. “Maybe the reason I get what’s going on with Prim is that I have a lot in common with her.”

I watch, puzzled, as he stares straight ahead, one leg twitching nervously. “What do you mean?” I ask. They’re both blonde, both blue-eyed, and both get on my nerves sometimes, but aside from that, I can’t imagine what Prim and Brody would have in common.

Brody coughs into his fist. “Do I really have to spell it out for you? Yeah, it’s you. I guess I do,” he sighs, answering his own question. “We’re alike because…I like guys.”

“Oh.” My eyes widen before I know I’m doing it. “ _Oh._ ”

He scratches at his temple uncomfortably, careful to avoid my eyes. “Yup.”

The full weight of what he’s told me hits me like a sack of flour. If even Peeta doesn’t know…does anyone? Besides _me_?

“Wow. Well…thank you…for telling me,” I say awkwardly. Brody won’t look at me, but he nods.

“It kind of…it’s hard to talk about it and _not_ talk about it, y’know?” he says. “My mom would bring up Astrid and your sister at dinner and just…I always feel like I’m lying.”

Peeta never said anything about his mom discussing Prim. The thought irks me – she can’t have been saying anything good – but I try to stay focused on Brody. “I’m sorry,” I say softly. “Is there…was there someone you loved, too?”

“There was. He’s married now.” A rueful little smile cracks along his face. “He was so _angry_ when I broke it off with Ava. He said it was the stupidest mistake I’d ever make. He stopped seeing me after that.” Brody shrugs. “I guess some people can spend their whole lives pretending they’re in love with someone. I can’t.”

I nod. I do understand, really. I’d been ready to try it with Gale – but I guess I can’t mimic that kind of love, either. “Peeta doesn’t know?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“No, nobody knows,” he says. “Except Ava. And you, I guess.”

I’m still confused. “So why did you tell me?”

“I don’t really know.” Brody laughs shortly, scratching at the back of his neck. “I kind of wish I hadn’t, to be honest. No offense.”

“That’s ok.” I pause. “I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”

He smiles at me, a little sadly. “I know. Maybe that’s why I told you. You’re probably the least gossipy person in the whole district. Went a lot better with you than it did with Ava, anyway.”

I give him a small smile back. Brody groans suddenly, stretching his legs out before him.

“So, come on. Now that you know how it’s tearing me up inside, you have to give my brother a shot, right?”

I wrinkle my nose. “I don’t think he even wants one anymore.”

“Nah, he does. He thinks that you’ll come around, if he gives you space,” Brody scoffs. “I told him it was stupid. I was like, ‘Have you _met_ Katniss?’”

It doesn’t sound that stupid to me – I _did_ admit that I liked Peeta – so maybe he didn’t tell Brody what happened between us, after all. “Hey.” I narrow my eyes. “Does he know you’re telling me all this?”

Brody snorts. “Are you kidding me? No. He’d have a heart attack.” He tilts his head back against the wall and meets my eyes. “Look. I’m not saying you should get with Peeta out of some weird sense of obligation to me and your sister. I’m saying…I don’t know. Don’t break his heart. _Again._ That’s all I really care about.”

I purse my lips, looking down. I can’t guarantee something like that. “Okay,” I say, noncommittal.

His hand lands on my shoulder, squeezing gently. “Good talk, Katniss.” Brody stands, hesitating at the door. “Um, so we’re good on…”

“I won’t tell,” I say, looking him in the eye. He nods, though his body remains visibly tense. I smile a little, trying to be reassuring. “I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not in love with how this chapter turned out. I hope that Brody coming out to Katniss felt genuine. I don't want to reduce Prim & Brody to props in the epic heterosexual love story of Everlark, but since this story is primarily about K & P, it's true that whatever's going on with the other characters is more or less going to be viewed through that framework by Katniss. Would love to hear your thoughts. Thank you for your kind reviews & support!! :)


	24. twenty-four

All I can think about that afternoon is what Brody told me.

For twenty-one years he’s hidden a part of himself that most people don’t even think twice about. He faked his feelings for a girl he’d never love, finally found someone he did, and was rejected. His parents told him he won’t inherit the bakery until he settles down with a woman.

I can’t even begin to imagine what kind of toll that would take on a person.

All the same, I wonder why he’s never told Peeta. I’m almost certain that Peeta wouldn’t turn away from him – even more certain that Peeta would never tell their mother, who I suspect doesn’t have many nice things to say about people with an interest in the same sex.

A terrible part of me is dying to tell Prim. Though plenty of people were supportive when they learned about her relationship with Astrid, no one came out and said _Me, too._ For all she knows, she and Astrid were the only ones in the entire district. And now she’s alone.

But it’s not my secret to tell.

Prim’s still touchy when I arrive home that evening, and I try to give her space. I need some peace and quiet to think about what Brody told me, anyway. But when I slip into bed beside her a few hours after sunset, I whisper, “I’m sorry for upsetting you.”

She takes so long to respond that I think she’s fallen asleep. “I just want you to be happy,” she finally says.

I find her fingers beneath the comforter and squeeze them briefly. “I know. Thanks.”

\---

School starts again a few days later. Prim attends without much fuss, to my surprise, but she won’t say much about it once she gets home every day. There are some classmates who make rude comments, she admits, but that’s as detailed as she gets.

It’s strange, not being back in the classroom like I was every fall since turning five years old. Even stranger when I think about where I _am_ instead. I’d feared going to work in the mines, and been vocal with my family and Gale about my refusal to do it; but somewhere in the back of my mind it was where I always assumed I’d end up, anyway. A lot of young women from the Seam end up putting in a year or two at the mines to save up money before they marry and start having children. Of course, marrying was never part of my plan. I knew that if I went to work in the mines, I’d be there for life.

I certainly never thought I’d be bagging loaves of bread and mixing cookie dough at the town bakery, anyway.

When I say as much one afternoon, as I’m washing out one of the big metal mixing bowls, Peeta smiles and starts to speak, then stops himself. “What?” I say.

He hesitates, then sets down the bowl of flour he’d been sifting. “You just made me think about the very first day of school,” he says. “Do you remember it?”

I shake my head. I do have a memory, sharp and clear, of falling down and skinning my knee when I fed the ducks by the school pond that year. I remember how hard I’d tried not to cry, and the dry, papery feeling of the gym teacher’s hand as she led me to the school nurse.

But the very first day of school – that’s a blur of colors and sound, of children yelling and a big, blonde woman with soft hands and a soothing voice. Mrs. Pickette, our kindergarten teacher. “Not really.”

Peeta grins. “I remember it. I remember _you._ ”

That gets my attention. “What do you remember?”

He shrugs. “Oh, everything.”

My stomach flips a little. “That seems unlikely.”

He laughs. “Seriously. My dad pointed you out in the first five minutes.”

“What?” How would Peeta’s dad even know who I was back then? “Why?”

“Well, because –“ Peeta’s grin suddenly drops off his face, and his eyes flick up towards the second floor for a split second. “Because he knew your parents, growing up.”

_He probably knew all the kids’ parents_ , I think, _it’s a small district._ Then I remember my mother’s words when I told her I got a job at the bakery from Mr. Mellark. A nice man, she called him. They went to school together.

“That’s not really why I remember, though,” Peeta continues quickly, his lips curving up again. “I remember you sang.”

I can count the number of times I sang at school on zero hands, because it was zero times. “I think you’ve got the wrong girl,” I say, a little annoyed that he’d mix me up with some other little girl with dark skin and hair. “I never sang at school.”

“You did, though,” he insists. “The teacher asked if anyone could sing the valley song, and your hand shot right up. She made you stand on this little stool and you sang it for us. You had a red dress on, and two braids. I remember.”

And suddenly, Peeta’s words dredge up a moment long forgotten…and I remember, too.

It was a different teacher – the music teacher, I guess, an older woman with graying hair and bad teeth. I hopped up on the stool. I sang the song just like my father taught me. The other kids applauded. And that was it. Just a moment, one among thousands. So insignificant that even _I_ forgot it about myself.

But Peeta didn’t.

I feel a little dizzy, and set the bowl and sponge down in the sink so I can grip the edge of the counter with my fingers. “You, have a really good memory,” I say quietly.

“Only for some things,” Peeta says.

My heart skitters in my chest, the way it does every time Peeta makes a comment like this, hinting at his feelings for me. Only this time, I think of Prim. The next time she feels this way, will she chase after it? Or will she stamp it down, the way I always do, fearing the rejection and the humiliation and the pain?

The bell rings out front, a welcome distraction. “Gotta get that,” I mumble, avoiding Peeta’s gaze.

\----

Brody pokes his head out into the storefront about an hour later. “Hey. We’re having lunch.”

I nod, reaching down below the counter to grab my sandwich bag. Brody, Peeta and I have taken to eating lunch together most days, though our quiet companionship has grown increasingly awkward over the past week – first when Peeta and I kissed, then after Brody made his confession to me. At this point, though, it would probably seem stranger if I insisted on eating alone, so I join them dutifully in the kitchen.

Peeta’s already chewing on his meal by the time I sit down on the stool next to him, so he just offers me a closed-mouth smile. I smile back, already feeling nervous for no specific reason. It’s driving me crazy, being around him every day, and having no idea what he’s thinking. In a way, it feels like we’re playing a game of chicken – who will break and talk about the night of the party first?

“So did you guys hear about what happened with Haymitch Abernathy?” Brody says, and launches into a story I only half-listen to – something about an empty bottle of white liquor and threats against a Peacekeeper. He’s been exceptionally chatty whenever Peeta and I are both around for the past few days, as though he fears I’ll blurt out his secret if there’s a lull in the conversation.

Peeta doesn’t seem very interested in the adventures of Haymitch, either, and he rolls his eyes at me when Brody isn’t looking. I suppress a laugh behind my hand, and Peeta hides his growing smile behind half of his sandwich. Then, with another quick glance at Brody, he starts to swing his jaw open and shut like a robot, in silent mimicry of his brother’s chatter.

This time I can’t hold in my snort. Brody stops short and glares at me, then Peeta. “What? I didn’t even get to the punchline yet.” His eyes narrow when Peeta continues to snicker, and I just shrug. “Ugh. I hate you guys.”

“No, you love us,” Peeta corrects him, and I nod solemnly in agreement.

“Whatever. I’ll let you two find some way to break the unbearable sexual tension, then,” he shoots back, shoving the last of his sandwich into his mouth. He mumbles something that I can’t understand, and grabs his jacket before swinging a cloth sack stuffed with loaves of bread over his shoulder. Deliveries, it seems.

The door slams behind Brody, leaving us in sudden silence. Peeta and I don’t say a word, each staring down at what remains of our lunch. I’m not hungry anymore.

“He’s a dick sometimes,” Peeta says quietly.

I make the mistake of looking up. Peeta’s eyes are already on me, and now I can’t look away.

The words spill out of me like water. “I’m sorry I ran away from you.”

Peeta’s expression remains neutral, but he watches me very intently. He’s silent, as though he expects me to say more, but I keep my mouth shut. I don’t even know what I’ll say if I continue speaking. But Peeta must be so tired of trying to fill in the blanks himself.

“You are?”

I nod.

“I thought about following you. But I thought it would seem a little…desperate,” he finishes with a short laugh.

 “I don’t think you’re desperate,” I say softly. I don’t tell him that I’d sat on the front step of my house that night, thinking – hoping? – that he might follow me, too.

“So I’ve hidden it well, then,” he jokes, cracking a smile.

My mouth curves up at one side. “Pretty well.”

“Look, can we – can we just try this again?” he asks, a new boldness in his voice. Peeta jerks his stool a few inches towards me so that his knee nestles between both of mine. “I’ll kiss you, and you won’t run away, and…we’ll just see what happens.”

He makes it sound so simple. _We’ll just see what happens._ I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. “Okay.”

And there’s no hesitation – from either of us – when Peeta reaches out to cradle my jaw, pulling me in and pressing his lips against mine.

This kiss is sweeter than our first, gentler than our second. There’s no beer lingering on his lips; there’s just the taste of him. Of boy. Of Peeta. He must still have cinnamon dusted on his fingers from this morning, because when he lifts one hand to cup my cheek the scent is so overwhelming, so comforting, that I actually sigh.

Peeta breaks the kiss first, but he doesn’t pull away, his breath a warm puff against my lips. Seconds tick by, but it’s obvious neither of us wants to move. “Still here,” I murmur after a long silence.

He laughs, startling me, and then crushes his lips against mine again. His tongue licks lightly along my bottom lip, and I part my lips in response, allowing his tongue to brush up against my own.

Before I realize what’s happening, he’s pulled me off of my stool and into his lap, one arm wrapped firmly around my torso just below the small of my back. My feet dangle off to one side of him and I wrap my arms around his middle instinctively, trying to regain my balance. Peeta holds me a little tighter, moving his mouth down to my jaw. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs, sliding his other hand up my back as he presses a kiss to my pulse point.

I don’t know how long we sit like that, entwined together on the little bakery stool, touching, tasting. I could be anywhere right now – the bakery, my house, the woods, the moon. It’s not until the back door creaks open that we abruptly come to our senses.

Mr. Mellark’s eyes are on his feet as he knocks the dirt from his shoes, but my brain is too numb for my reflexes to kick in immediately. He looks up, sees me on Peeta’s lap, and freezes with a startled “ _Oh._ ”

I spring off of Peeta and knock my hip into the table with a dull thud. “ _Ouch_ ,” I hiss, rubbing hard at the spot where I know I’ll find a bruise in the morning. Peeta just clasps his hands in his lap, his face blushing crimson.

His father looks slightly amused, but mostly uncomfortable. “Hello.” He coughs into his fist, his own cheeks turning a little pink. “It appears I’ve interrupted something.”

“Dad –“

“ _Peeta._ ” His father gives him a meaningful look. “Don’t I always say to keep –“

“ _Keep it out of the kitchen_ ,” Peeta mumbles in sync with Mr. Mellark. Apparently this is something they’ve dealt with before. “Yes. Um, sorry. I…” He trails off, uncharacteristically at a loss for words.

Mr. Mellark just shakes his head slowly. “Katniss, I hope you know what you’re getting into,” he says, half-joking.

So do I.

\---

Peeta finishes his work under the watchful eye of his father that afternoon, so there’s no chance for us to talk about what all this kissing _means._ My stomach stays twisted up in knots through the remaining hours of my shift, and I don’t think my heartbeat slows down once. When it’s time to go home, I find Peeta, his father and Brody all working quietly in the kitchen, and though I feel like a coward, there’s no way I’m talking about this with all three of them standing around. Waving my hand in goodbye, I make a hasty bolt for the door.

“Wait!” Peeta hurries across the room, grabbing a jacket from a hook on the wall and pulling it over his shoulders before I can even step outside. “I’ll walk you.”

I glance back at his family as he follows me out the door; Mr. Mellark is focused on rolling out some pastry dough, but Brody flashes me two thumbs up and a giant grin. So I guess he knows what went on after he left. It’s probably what he _hoped_ would go on after he left, I realize. _Tricky bastard._

Peeta walks close to my side, our hands brushing up against one another every so often, but neither of us speaks until we’re out of sight of the bakery. The school doesn’t let out for another half hour, so the town square is relatively empty. Peeta says hello to a middle-aged woman we pass on the street – a neighbor, I suppose – then turns to me and says, “Well, that was embarrassing, huh.”

I glance back at the woman, unsure what he means. “Um…why?”

He follows my gaze. “Oh. No, not her. I meant my dad.”

“Oh.” I bite my bottom lip. “Is he mad?”

“Not at you,” he assures me quickly. “Not really at me, either. We’re just…not really supposed to do that there.”

“Is that…something you’ve done in there often?” I pull at a loose thread on my shirt, trying to downplay my interest in his answer.

“Not _often_ ,” Peeta says. “Once or twice, I guess. Making out in the bakery was kind of Ned’s thing,” he laughs.

Ned, the oldest brother – the one I’ve never met. “So…where _are_ you supposed to do that kind of thing?” I ask casually.

“Oh, um…” Peeta laughs again. “I don’t know. It’s not like there’s an officially sanctioned make out place. My room, I guess, but I still share it with Brody, so...”

Just the thought of being in Peeta’s bedroom with him is enough to make my pulse pick up. Gale and I both shared rooms with our siblings, too, so any kissing we did was usually out in the meadow or the woods. Not exactly conducive to anything _more_ than kissing – but neither is a bakery kitchen, I suppose.

“I didn’t realize you were walking me all the way home,” I say lightly, changing the subject. We’re well past the Merchant quarter now, on the winding gravel road that will eventually give way to the dirt paths of the Seam.

Peeta smiles, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I didn’t either,” he admits. “I just wanted to ask you something in private.”

Heat floods my face. “Oh?”

Peeta kicks at a stray rock in the path, then stops, turning to face me. I stop too, though I’m antsy, and begin tracing little shapes in the gravel with the toe of my shoe. “Did you mean it?” he says after a long pause. His voice is steady, but there’s an undercurrent of doubt. “When you said you didn’t want to run away?”

My fingers automatically reach for the end of my braid, as they always do when I’m nervous. “I meant it.”

“Then will you go on a date with me sometime?” he asks, taking a step closer.

I’m actually relieved by his question – I thought he’d ask me to be his girlfriend, officially, which I’m still not sure about. I don’t know if I’ll ever be sure about something like that. But a date I can handle.

“Okay,” I say. “Yeah.”

Peeta’s smile is so wide I think it might leave stretch marks on his cheeks. “Fantastic,” he says, but when he leans in slightly I step back an inch. I can’t help it; I’m just not ready to kiss him out here on the street, in broad daylight, where anyone could see. Where _Gale_ could see, though logically I know that he’s at work in the mines right now.

Peeta plays it off smoothly, though, leaning further down to tie his shoelaces, which have come loose during our walk. He’s still smiling when he straightens back up. “Can I walk you the rest of the way?” he asks.

I hesitate. If Prim or my mother sees us together, I’ll be stuck answering a million questions before I have any time to myself to think about all of this. But his smile is so sweet, with just the right hint of shyness, that I can’t turn him away.

“You’ve already come this far,” I say, and we continue down the road together, side by side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay for progress!
> 
> Thank you so much for your reviews. You're all amazing for sticking with this. Thank you :)


	25. twenty-five

Peeta picks up on my growing discomfort as we draw nearer to my house, and he doesn’t try to come inside. Instead he kisses my cheek, takes a step back and says, “Saturday.”

That’s only a few days from now. But I know if we put it off any longer, I’ll talk myself out of the date entirely – in fact, I might do that anyway. “Okay.”

His mouth twists around a bit as he tries to control his smile. “I’ll come pick you up at seven o’clock?”

Is that how these things work? “Sure,” I tell him, my eyes scanning the road behind him for a sign of my family. At this point I’d probably say anything just to get him off my front step; Prim or Mother could open the door at any moment, or turn the corner and see us…

“Okay. Have a good night, Katniss.”

I only wait a second before slipping inside. I can feel instantly that I’m the only one home. Without even thinking I stride into my mother’s room and part the curtains on the windows, peering out to watch Peeta as he meanders down the dirt path. Even from behind I can detect a new, confident bounce in his step – and for one brief moment, I think he actually _skips_.

Without warning, he turns around to look back at the house. I shut the curtains before me abruptly, heart pounding. I have no idea if he saw me watching, but I don’t chance another look out the window.

Feeling overwhelmed, I flop back on Mother’s bed. It’s smaller than the one Prim and I share; originally it was ours, but once we both started to grow bigger Mother gave up the bed that she and my father had shared so the two of us could sleep more comfortably. The quilt on her bed is softer than ours, though, and I press my face into the fabric, trying to contain the emotion churning through me.

I hope I don’t regret this.

\---

“You’re acting weird,” Prim says, eyeing me suspiciously.

I ignore her, focusing on the dishes I’m washing in the sink. “Hand me that glass, please.”

She does, but it doesn’t stop her line of inquisition. “Are you hiding something? You’re all…jittery.”

“What? No. I ate a lot at the bakery today,” I lie shamelessly. “Sugar high.”

I spent a good portion of my afternoon wondering how I’d tell Prim about what happened between Peeta and me, but now that she’s actually in front of me, I can’t bring myself to do it. I know she’d only be happy for me. But if I tell her, it will all become so… _real._ If our date is terrible – which, let’s face it, there’s a definite chance it will be – I don’t want to have to explain the aftermath to Prim.

“You left the bakery five hours ago,” she points out shrewdly. “Sugar highs don’t last that long.”

“How do you know? We never ate sugar growing up. Maybe my body just reacts differently.” It sounds logical enough to me, at least.

Prim narrows her eyes, watching me in silence for a few seconds more, before she turns away. “I’m going to take Lady for a walk,” she announces.

Mother joins me in the kitchen shortly after Prim leaves, picking up a towel to dry off the dishes. I tense, half-expecting her to pick up where Prim left off in her questioning, but she simply says, “I think she’s doing better.”

I nod. “She is.”

We’re quiet for a long moment. “You deserve a lot of the credit for that,” Mother says, her eyes flicking to me as she speaks.

My forehead creases into a slight frown. I’m not quite sure what she’s getting at. “Prim’s strong,” I say evenly.

“But you taught her that,” she says, more firmly this time. “I…I never knew how to deal with…that kind of loss. I still don’t.”

I scrub hard at a spot where a few bits of food have crusted over. “I just did what any sister would do,” I mutter. The effort I’m putting into cleaning this pan hides the wavering in my voice pretty well, I think.

“Well. Know that it’s appreciated.” Her voice is soft, and as I feel her hand ghost over my hair I have to swallow down the lump that suddenly appears in my throat.

When Prim gets back home that evening, I jump up from the couch and wrap her tightly in a hug. She freezes in my arms. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” I say. “I just love you.”

“Oh.” Her arms lift to embrace me back, feeling stronger than they have in months. “I love you, too.”

\---

Within thirty seconds of arriving at the bakery the next morning, I know that Peeta hasn’t told Brody, because he isn’t teasing me mercilessly the moment I walk through the door. Peeta shoots me a warm, meaningful smile when his brother isn’t looking, but other than that, we keep the same respectful distance from one another that we’ve been keeping all along.

I feel kind of guilty, hiding a secret from Brody when he’d entrusted me with such a heavy secret of his own. But he’s not _my_ brother, and Peeta must have his reasons, so I say nothing.

The next few days pass uneventfully, and I almost wonder if Peeta had forgotten about our date until he follows me outside at the end of my shift on Saturday afternoon. “I’ll see you tonight?” he asks, stepping closer. His fingers find the end of my braid, hanging over my shoulder, and he plays with it gently. It’s oddly intimate, sending a light flutter through my stomach.

“Yes,” I say. “At seven?”

“Yup.” With a final tug on my hair, he steps back, his mouth curving into a smile. “See you soon.”

A stroke of luck greets me when I arrive home: Mother and Prim are hastily packing supplies into a few of Mother’s medical bags, for a neighbor who’s giving birth a few houses down. A bit of the weight lifts off my shoulders when I realize they won’t be around to see Peeta pick me up this evening – and I won’t have to explain what I’m doing out of the house on Saturday night.

What’s even better, though, is the realization that this is the first time Prim has helped our mother with her healing work since the Reaping in the spring.

I’m in a good mood by the time Peeta knocks on the door at precisely seven o’clock. I check my reflection in the bathroom mirror one more time: no makeup, but my hair looks neat, and I’d even bothered to twist my braid up into a sort of bun instead of leaving it hanging down my back as usual. It’s too cold out to wear a dress, but I’m wearing one of my nicer sweaters, a deep red one that Prim insists brings out my eyes.

I don’t much care how I look, but of the few things I know about going on dates, looking nice seems to be a key component.

Peeta is bouncing on the balls of his feet when I open the door, his hands behind his back. He swings them around as soon as he sees me, presenting me with a small bouquet of yellow and pink flowers. “You look beautiful,” he says immediately.

I accept the flowers, a little speechless. “Thank you,” I stammer, flustered. He’s already managed to make me blush in the first five seconds of our date. “Um, you look nice, too.”

“Thank you.”

I hold the flowers awkwardly, not sure what to do. If I leave them inside, Prim and Mother will see them once they’re home. And I’ll have to explain where they came from.

Peeta looks a little embarrassed. “Sorry, I didn’t know if you like flowers. You don’t have to keep them.”

I feel instantly terrible. “No, they’re lovely,” I say sincerely. “I just…never got flowers before. Let me put these in water.” He hangs back by the door while I grab a glass and fill it with water, dropping the bouquet inside and placing it in the center of the kitchen table. I’ll have to throw the flowers into Lady’s pen later tonight and hope she eats them before my family gets back.

I join him outside and shut the front door. We stand together quietly for a moment, and then Peeta nods. “Ready?”

I nod, too. “Sure.”

Peeta takes us on a strange, circuitous route south – I know we’re heading somewhere back into town, but instead of walking down the main road I always take to work, we head down a series of little-traveled side streets. I’m grateful, since there’s less chance that we’ll be seen together by someone who recognizes us, and I wonder if that’s what he intended.

“Where are we going?” I ask after a few minutes, intensely curious.

“It’s a surprise,” he says. Peeta takes my hand and squeezes it briefly. “You’ll see.”

Our destination doesn’t become any clearer until Peeta leads me right around to the back of our old school, stopping before an unmarked metal door. “Almost there,” he says cheerfully, pulling a key out of his pocket.

My jaw drops open as he unlocks the door, revealing a dark, empty stairwell. “Where did you get that?”

“I still visit with my old wrestling coach sometimes,” he says with a shrug. “Mr. Jacoby?”

“Yeah, I remember him.” Neither of us makes a move to enter the stairwell. I look at Peeta. “So…you want to hang out in here?”

He laughs. “No. Um, hang on a sec.” Peeta jogs over to the playground a few feet away and picks up one of the large stones bordering the area around the rusting swingset like it’s nothing. He wedges it in the doorway, propping the door open so that just enough light streams in to make the stairs inside visible. Seeming to sense my hesitation, he asks, “Do you want me to go up first?”

I realize how silly I must seem, apprehensive about an old staircase when I regularly duck beneath an electric fence and hunt illegally in the woods. “No, I’ll go,” I say, though I appreciate the faint pressure of his hand on the small of my back as I make my way carefully up the stairs.

The school is only one story high, so it doesn’t take long to find the door to the roof. It’s nearly rusted shut, it seems, and I need Peeta’s help to push it open. I stumble forward when it finally gives way, and he wraps his arm around my middle reflexively, steadying me against his chest. We’re standing like that, pressed together, when I finally understand what Peeta brought me here for.

In the middle of the roof, about thirty feet away, a brown blanket is laid out on the ground, a small basket sitting in the middle. Peeta’s brought me to a picnic.

“I hope you didn’t eat already,” he says quietly, his mouth right next to my ear. I shake my head a little.

“No,” I say, startled by how breathy my own voice sounds.

“Good.” Peeta pulls away from me and takes my hand loosely in his, leading me over to the blanket. We sit on opposite sides of the basket, but after a moment Peeta scoots over next to me, just close enough that our knees are touching.

He’s brought sandwiches with chicken and tomatoes and real butter, a thermos of tea, and two apple tarts for dessert. He apologizes for the simplicity of the meal, and I look at him like he’s crazy. No one has ever gone to this much trouble to feed me.

We talk a little while we eat, though it’s mostly Peeta who speaks, making little jokes about the food and the setting between bites. “I hope this is okay,” he says at one point, gesturing around us. “I thought, this is the most adventurous girl in District 12, so where can I take her that she hasn’t been before?”

I choke a little on a sip of tea. “You didn’t have to do that,” I tell him.

“I know.” He smiles, bumping his knee against mine. “I just wanted to.”

“Well, I have never been on the roof of the school, so mission accomplished,” I joke, trying to diffuse a little of the tension that’s been slowly building between us all evening.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “My mission’s only accomplished when you tell me this was the best date you’ve ever been on.”

“How about the _only_ date I’ve ever been on,” I correct him.

Peeta frowns, tilting his head to look at me. “You never went on a date with Gale?”

It’s the first time I’ve thought of Gale all night, something I realize with mild surprise. “No, not really,” I say with a small shrug. I don’t know where we would have gone together, anyway – there aren’t many places around the Seam to spend time with someone besides the meadow and the slag heap. “He doesn’t have a lot of free time,” I add hastily, though I’m not sure why I feel the need to defend him.

“No, yeah, I understand,” Peeta says, nodding vigorously. He chuckles. “I guess that makes my mission easier than I thought.”

I smile at him, hoping I look reassuring, but inside I feel like I’m crumbling a little. I’d told Gale that I didn’t want this kind of relationship – not with him, not with _anyone._ Yet here I am, on a rooftop at sunset with Peeta Mellark, whose kiss somehow made me completely forget that I don’t really _want_ kisses in the first place.

“Hey. Let’s play a game,” Peeta says abruptly, sensing a need to change the topic. “I’ll say a thing, and you have to guess what my favorite is.”

I raise an eyebrow. “That’s a game?”

He grins. “It can be. How about…if you get it wrong, and I guess yours right, I get a prize. Or vice versa.”

“What’s the prize?”

“How about a kiss?”

I should have seen that coming. “Fine,” I say after a long pause.

“Okay.” Peeta settles back on the blanket, resting on his elbows, and I join him, tilting my head back to look up at the sunset. “Favorite color.”

“That’s easy. Orange,” I scoff. “You already told me that, remember?”

“Good memory,” Peeta says. “You going to claim your prize?”

When it hits me that I’d walked right into his trap, I gasp and slap him lightly on the arm.  Peeta laughs, burying his face in his shoulder. “Okay, that one wasn’t fair. I’m going to guess that yours is…um…blue.”

I shake my head smugly. “It’s green.”

“Ah.” Peeta snaps his fingers. “That was my next choice.”

“Sure it was.” I think for a moment. “Favorite food.”

“Squirrel brains.” At my look, he bursts out laughing again. “No, no, that’s not my real answer. Um…you seem like you really like the sugar cookies we make. So I say sugar cookies.”

“Wrong,” I announce gleefully. I do like them – but the reason I often take the day-old leftovers home is that they’re Prim’s favorite. “You’re close, though. It’s something from the bakery.”

“The goat cheese tarts.”

“Nope.”

“Cheese buns?”

I nod, laughing when Peeta pumps his fist in triumph. “Okay, now you guess mine.”

“Um…” I think about what I’ve seen Peeta eat – mostly taste tests of whatever’s new in the bakery that day, or stale leftovers that didn’t sell. “ _You_ really like the goat cheese tart. With apples.”

Peeta shakes his head. “Beef stew is my favorite. My dad only makes it once a year, for my birthday.”

“Ah. That’s nice of him.” I’ve only tasted beef a few times in my own life, preferring the fresh meat I bring home myself to the cuts that sit on Rooba’s shelf in the butchery. Of course, the exorbitant cost has something to do with that, too.

The game continues, and it’s surprisingly amusing, even more so because we quickly realize we really don’t know each other’s preferences at all. I guess dog for Peeta’s favorite animal, but he loves bears. He guesses summer for my favorite season, but I prefer fall.

Maybe it should give me pause, that I don’t really know much about this boy. But honestly, I feel like I learned everything I really need to know about Peeta Mellark the day that he threw me that bread.

Before I know it the sun has almost completely set below the horizon, leaving Peeta and I beneath a deep gray sky just starting to glow with pinprick stars.

“Favorite relative,” I say, hiding a yawn behind my arm. We’re laying down on the blanket now, facing each other on our sides.

“Prim,” Peeta says easily. I nod, not bothering to suppress the smile that slides across my face.

“Yours is Brody,” I say, knowing that it’s true even though we’ve rarely spoken about his family. Maybe that’s _how_ I know. Peeta nods, too.

“I guess we both win that one,” he murmurs. He doesn’t even try to hide it when his gaze drops down to look at my lips.

My breath hitches in my throat before I speak. “I guess.”

We roll in towards one another at the same moment, our lips finding each other’s easily in the dark. He tastes like tea and apples, and when his teeth bite gently on my lower lip, a delicious shiver rolls all the way through my body. I’m warm and full from our meal, but there’s a hunger gnawing deep in my belly nonetheless – and with every touch of our lips, it only grows stronger.

Peeta’s hands run over my back, pulling me in close, and I moan a little as he dips his head to my neck, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses along my skin. Slowly he shifts me onto my back, his weight pressing down on me, pleasantly heavy. My knees fall out to the sides, making room for him to nestle between my legs. I run my fingers through his hair and pull him back up to kiss me on the lips again; this time, he doesn’t even hesitate to plunge his tongue into my mouth.

When Gale had done this before I’d always started to giggle, torn out of the moment by the sheer oddity of another person’s tongue poking around mine. With Peeta, though, I try to reciprocate, slipping my tongue into his mouth, loving the feeling when we brush against one another. When he sucks on mine gently, I make a sound I didn’t even know I was capable of low in my throat.

Clearly emboldened by the noises I’m making, Peeta slips one hand up under my sweater, caressing the sensitive skin over my ribs. I gasp against his mouth. He hesitates just beneath the bottom edge of my bra, his fingers skimming back and forth.

_There is nothing here to stop us but us,_ I think, and cover his hand with my own before I start to second-guess myself. “You can…” I breathe, moving his hand to cup my breast.

“Mmmph,” Peeta groans appreciatively against my collarbone, curling his fingers around me gently. His thumb brushes over my nipple and sends such a jolt through me that I cry out, pressing my chest further up against his hand, aching for more.

Abruptly Peeta pulls back; he sits back on his heels and pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it somewhere off to the side of the blanket. He tugs slightly at the bottom of my sweater then, a question in his eyes. I lift my arms and back up off the ground in answer, letting him undress me.

Instead of throwing my sweater aside, Peeta balls it up in his fists and then places it on the ground behind me, gently guiding my head back down to rest on it with his other hand. “You’re beautiful,” he says, taking a moment to look at me before he leans back down to capture my mouth in a fierce kiss.

I can hardly catch my breath before he’s moved on, running his lips and tongue over every part of me he can find, my jaw, my neck, my collarbone – and finally, the valley between my breasts, where he seems content to hover for as long as I’ll let him. Eventually he nips at the edge of my bra with his teeth, looking back up at me to seek permission.

Half of me wants him to do it: to slip off my bra and run his warm hands over my bare skin. But the other half – the half that’s slowly realizing what all these hands and lips and tongues mean, and where they’re going – is terrified.

As one hand toys with the strap of my bra, Peeta rolls his hips against me lightly, and it strikes me suddenly that he’s hard. I can feel him, firm against my thigh, and when he thrusts against me again my own hips jerk back in an instinctive response. My mind might be confused, but my body clearly knows what it wants. It wants Peeta.

“Stop,” I croak, pushing slightly on his chest. To his credit, Peeta halts his movements immediately, pushing up onto his hands and knees. He blinks rapidly, like I’ve just woken him from a deep sleep and he’s trying to clear his head.

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

I prop myself up on my elbows, drawing my legs back together, suddenly embarrassed. “I’m fine. I just felt like – maybe we’re moving too fast.”

Peeta quickly sits upright, wrapping an arm around his knees. “Ah, yeah, you’re right.” He shifts uncomfortably, and I look away, giving him a moment to adjust himself to a more tolerable position. “I’m sorry. I swear, I wouldn’t normally get that…intense…on a first date,” he admits, blushing a little. “It’s kind of hard to control myself around you.”

His words almost change my mind, but I force myself to pull my sweater back over my head, putting a definite end to any thoughts of going further. Peeta nods and reaches for his shirt, too, though I don’t miss the flash of disappointment that flickers over his face.

He scoots over next to me, keeping an inch or two of space between us, but I can practically feel the desire pulsing out of him in waves. To be honest, I’m not so sure it’s one-sided, either.

“We, um…” Peeta coughs. “We could just hang out, or look at the stars, or something.”

“We could,” I say. “But, um. I didn’t…I mean, I think we should keep our clothes on, but…we could…”

“Yeah?” He looks at me, his eyes dark in the dim moonlight. “You still want to…”

I nod. I open my mouth to reply, but Peeta leans in and swallows my answer with a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, he did take off the bra. But I realized Katniss is still pretty nervous & inexperienced at this point, and she'd want to hold back a little. But don't worry. Smut's coming in the not so distant future :)
> 
> Thank you for your reviews!!


	26. twenty-six

Peeta and I stay up on the roof of the school long past dark, and by the time we fold up the blanket and pack away the cups and plates, we’ve missed the district curfew. We travel on the same side streets that we’d walked earlier in the evening on the way to my house, silently agreeing to avoid conversation so we don’t attract the attention of any Peacekeepers on patrol.

Not that it makes much difference – because Peeta’s footsteps are so loud they can probably hear him all the way in District Eleven. I think about asking him to take his shoes off, but if anyone catches us they’ll probably just assume we’re sneaking home after a tryst by the slag heap, and let us off with a warning. _It’s close enough to the truth,_ I think, grateful that Peeta can’t see the way my face flushes in the dark.

By some miracle we make it to my front door unnoticed. Peeta stands close to me, and brushes a lock of hair behind my ear. “I had a really good time tonight,” he says, his fingers lingering on my cheek.

“Me too,” I agree. “In my top three dates of all time.”

Peeta laughs, then leans in and kisses me. His hands come to rest on my waist, and I grasp his elbows lightly to keep my balance. “You’re funny,” he murmurs, and the compliment sends a pleasant little shock through me. People have called me many things over the years, but _funny_ was never one of them.

He pulls back after another peck on the lips. I’m surprised by how badly I want him to stay – for the night to stretch on and on before us. Because here in the shadows and quiet, I’m not thinking about any of the doubts that I know will rush back in when the sun rises again in the morning. I’m only thinking about how I feel with him at this moment.

“I’ll let you get to bed,” he says, keeping his voice low. “See you tomorrow?”

I shake my head. “I’m off tomorrow.”

His face falls just slightly. “Right. I forgot. Well, Monday then.” He squeezes my hand one last time and then steps away. “Goodnight, Katniss.”

“Wait.”  

Peeta stops, watching me expectantly.

“I don’t want you to walk all that way by yourself,” I admit in a rush of breath. “It’s late, and – you might get stopped.”

Peeta’s smile borders on a smirk. “I’ll be fine,” he says. “But I’m glad to know you’re concerned about me.”

“Seriously, Peeta,” I say, more firmly this time. “You can…sleep on the couch or something.”

The smile drops off his face as he realizes I’m not joking. His eyes dart nervously to the dark, silent house behind me. “Your mom wouldn’t mind?”

Now it’s my turn to get awkward. “She’s not home.”

A look I can’t quite place flits across Peeta’s face, but I know exactly what he’s thinking – because even if I have no intention of acting on it, I’m thinking it too.

“I think I should head home,” he says after a long pause. “I have to be up so early for work.”

I nod quickly, embarrassed. “Yeah, of course.”

Peeta steps closer and places his palm on my hip, squeezing it gently. “You know I want to stay. But…” He shrugs, a little sheepish. “I think you were right. It’s not the right night.” His kiss is firmer this time, but still fleeting, and after we exchange goodbyes I watch as he heads off into the darkness.

The house is still and quiet when I enter, Peeta’s flowers still sitting untouched in their vase on the kitchen table. I sit down at the table and rest my chin in my hand, still reeling a little from Peeta’s last kiss.

Even though the date is over, I feel just as jumpy as I had in the hours leading up to it. Like I’m still anticipating something. But I also feel warm inside, all throughout my body. I smile against my palm, embarrassed by my reaction, even though there’s no one here to witness it.

I reach out and touch the flowers idly. They’re soft against my fingertips. Gale had given me flowers in the past, on several occasions, and I’d always felt strange about it – especially when it was clear they were from the flower shop in town, and not picked from the fields around the Seam. I never wanted him to spend money on me like that, when I knew how little he had.

Pushing away the thought, I pluck one of the yellow flowers from the bouquet and tuck it behind my ear.

I glance at the clock on the kitchen counter. It’s past midnight, and even though I don’t have work in the morning, I should be heading to bed. But my veins are still buzzing – with adrenaline, with nerves, with something I can’t quite define.

Slipping off my shoes, I move into my room and lay down on the bed, closing my eyes. I think back to just a few hours ago, when I was laying like this on the roof of the school, Peeta’s warm weight pressing down into me. My hand creeps slowly down my thigh, brushing idly back and forth. It had felt so good – so impossibly good – to feel his skin against mine, bare in the cool night air. I wonder if it will feel as good the next time.

My eyes flutter open. _The next time?_ Will there be a next time? Do I want there to be a next time? Does Peeta?

I remember Peeta’s lips against mine, his fingers tracing over the curves of my breasts. His hips pressing into me…

Peeta obviously wants a next time.  

My stomach tightens, not unpleasantly. I think I want a next time, too.

\---

Someone says my name, and I wake with a start.

It’s Prim, sitting on her knees on the bed beside me. Moonlight shines in through the gaps in the window curtains. I can’t have been asleep for more than a few hours. “What?” I croak, disoriented.

Her expression is inscrutable in the dark. “Why do you have flowers?” she whispers.

_Shit._ I’d completely forgotten to dump Peeta’s flowers when I got home. My hand moves to my temple – sure enough, the blossom I’d tucked behind my ear is still there, a little crushed from when I’d rolled onto it in my sleep.

I scowl, crumpling the flower in my fist and dropping it on the bedside table. “What _time_ is it?” I ask, rubbing my eyes blearily.

“A little past three,” she says. Groaning, I pull the sheets up over my head. Prim is undeterred. “Are they from Gale?” she persists.

“No.”

“Are they from Peeta?”

I hesitate. Now’s as good a time as any to tell her, I suppose. “Yeah. They’re from Peeta.”

Instead of the squeal I’d expected, there’s silence. Then something soft but heavy hits me – her pillow. “Katniss! Why didn’t you tell me?” she hisses.

I peek out from under the sheets. “Tell you what? You just got home.”

“That Peeta’s your boyfriend.”

I scoff, rolling onto my back. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

“He kissed you, and now he gave you flowers. And you’ve been acting weird for days. That’s what I call a boyfriend.”

“Well, you’re wrong. We’ve only been on one date.”

Prim’s mouth falls open. “You went on a _date_?”

I bury my face in my pillow. “Prim, I’m so tired,” I whine. “Can we talk about this tomorrow?”

“Ugh.” She makes a little noise of disgust, so similar to the one our mother sometimes makes that I’d laugh if I had the energy. “I can’t believe you. You’re telling me everything tomorrow.”

Despite how much I really _don’t_ want to do that, I smile into my pillow. “Yeah, okay. Goodnight.”

\---

Prim’s curled up on her side and fast asleep when I wake up the next morning, a little later than I usually do myself. I stretch my arms over my head, wiggling my body a little as the same nervous energy that consumed me last night spreads through my limbs.

I don’t have to see Peeta today, thankfully, which takes some of the pressure off. I’ll have some time to think things through. But it won’t be long before Prim wakes up and demands a minute-by-minute account of my date with him.

I can hear some rustling around in the kitchen, which means Mother’s already awake. Wrapping my arms around myself, I shuffle out of the bedroom, shutting the door softly behind me.

“Good morning,” she greets me, looking back over her shoulder from where she’s slicing bread at the kitchen counter.

“Morning,” I reply. “How was the delivery?”

“Long, but everything went smoothly,” she says pleasantly. “Mother and baby are resting peacefully. Well, they were. It’s Mrs. Dallman’s first so I’ll be checking up on them this afternoon to make sure the baby’s breastfeeding.”

I nod a little. I know almost nothing about birthing, and even less about babies; at age four I wasn’t exactly ready to help care for Prim. Since I’ve never planned on having one of my own, getting acquainted with babies hasn’t been much of a priority over the years.

“You want some bread and jam?” Mother asks.

I nod again. “Yes, please.”

She sets a plate with two slices and a near-empty jar of strawberry jam on the table, then joins me with her own plate. We eat quietly for a few minutes, and then she asks, “Where’d the flowers come from?”

I chew my bread for much longer than necessary. “Well, they’re from Peeta Mellark,” I mumble, immediately taking another bite.

“Peeta?” She sounds surprised. Gale must have been her first thought, too. “I didn’t know that you two were spending time together.”

“We weren’t,” I say quickly.

“But you are now,” she presses.

I shrug. “Sort of.”

“Well, I hope he’s being a gentleman.” Mother raises her eyebrows as she says it, and I look away, blushing at the implication.

“That’s not even – I mean. Of course he is.” I take another huge bite of bread and jam, hoping she’ll leave me alone if my mouth is too stuffed to speak. She says nothing, but she doesn’t leave the table, watching me as I chew on my breakfast.

Eventually the silence becomes too much. “ _What?”_ I demand.

“Don’t use that tone with me.” Her voice is tinged with warning, but she actually looks sort of…amused?

“You’re staring at me,” I grumble.

“I’m just trying to see if there’s anything different about you,” she says, and my face must turn the color of the strawberry jam on my plate.

“There’s not,” I say shortly, pushing back my chair to stand. Mother looks relieved, though I don’t know if it’s because she believes me or because I’m ending the conversation before it can go any further. “I’ve got the day off. You need anything from the Hob?”

“Oh – um, rubbing alcohol. If you can find any.” I nod, avoiding her eyes as I go back into the bedroom to get dressed.

\---

Prim wakes up as I’m pulling on my jacket, and eagerly accepts my invitation to accompany me to the Hob. She’s only come there with me on rare occasions, but now that she’s getting a little older, it might be useful to have another member of the family who knows their way around the market.

Of course, that’s not _her_ motivation for joining me – it’s to pry for more details about my date with Peeta.

“That’s so cute,” she sighs happily as I describe the game Peeta and I had played when we finished eating our picnic. (I leave out the fact that the winner received a kiss, although I’m probably being silly – it’s not as though Prim hasn’t done her fair share of kissing at this point.) “Do you think you’re falling in love with him?”

I laugh. “Don’t you think it’s a little early for that?”

“No,” she says simply.

She sounds so confident that I’m not sure how to argue the point. As we approach the market, I change the subject anyway – there’s no need for my fellow poachers, smugglers and peddlers to know more about my private life.

Visiting the Hob has become an entirely different experience since I started working at the bakery. In the past I’d hardly ever had more than a handful of coins to spend – it was a place to barter, not buy. But now that I’m hunting less and bringing in an actual paycheck, I find I can be a little more selective in what I bring home with me.

First we stop by Ripper’s stall for a brief chat. Ripper mostly keeps the district stocked with liquor and cheap wine, but occasionally she’ll have a bottle or two of rubbing alcohol on hand, and she knows my family’s always good for it. She almost seems a little disappointed when I pull actual money from my sack to pay for it, instead of a dead rabbit.

Then I pay a visit to Greasy Sae, the older woman who can make a stew out of almost anything. Not necessarily a _good_ stew – but an edible one? Certainly.

“Good catch today?” she greets me, slowly stirring the pot before her.

“No,” I admit. “No catch, actually.”

Sae purses her lips, glancing at Prim before eyeing me thoughtfully. “I noticed you haven’t been around with that boy of yours lately.”

She means Gale, of course, who would normally be the one accompanying me here on a late Sunday morning after a successful hunt in the woods.

“He’s not my boy,” I tell her pointedly. “But this is my sister, and I think she’d like a bowl of soup.”

“Katniss has got herself another boy.” A deep voice pipes up from behind me, sounding playful. I jerk around and find Darius, one of the more lenient Peacekeepers, watching me smugly. “Or wasn’t that you I saw sneaking around the school last night with the Mellark boy?”

I gape at him wordlessly while Prim snickers beside me. “Whoever that is,” Greasy Sae says dismissively, passing me a bowl of hot stew, the steam curling up into the cool afternoon air.

“Why didn’t you tell me you liked blondes? I would’ve dyed my hair,” Darius continues, a cheeky grin spreading across his face.

“Shut up,” I stammer, my face turning scarlet for the second time this morning. It crosses my mind that if I said that to _any_ Peacekeeper but Darius, I’d be in the stocks within the hour, but I can’t dwell on that now. I turn away quickly and drop the bowl of the soup on top of the worn bench Sae uses as a makeshift table. “Here, Prim. Eat.”

Prim looks a little shell-shocked by my harsh words to Darius, so I slip onto a stool and tug her onto the one beside me. Eyes wide, she picks up her spoon and starts to slurp up the soup.

Darius settles onto the seat on my other side, bending his head down so he can speak quietly. “You’re not in trouble,” he says, keeping his voice low. My pulse slows down just a fraction. “But I can’t say I’m not a little bit heartbroken,” he says louder, resting a hand over his heart.

I roll my eyes, biting back the snippy reply that springs to mind. I don’t think Darius would turn us in for trespassing – he’s basically said as much – but what if someone else had seen us up on that roof last night?

“I don’t know how he convinced this one,” Darius continues, acknowledging me with a tilt of his head. “I’ve given her _references_ and she still won’t kiss me.”

“You’re too fat, old man,” a new voice pipes up. I tense in recognition. “It’d be like kissing a whale.”

Darius – who’s short but wiry, no older than thirty, and required to maintain a high level of physical fitness as a Peacekeeper – laughs heartily at the joke.

“Hey Catnip,” Gale says more quietly, meeting my eyes. He nods at Prim. “Hi, Prim.”

“Hi,” Prim chirps back, but I just nod, desperately hoping that he didn’t hear any of the conversation leading up to Darius’ lament. The last time we’d seen each other in the woods, he was still so hurt by what happened between us – and the fact that I’ve already been seen around with another boy won’t do anything to help mend our tattered relationship.

“What have you got for me, young man?” Sae asks eagerly, breaking the tension.

“Plenty.” Gale flashes her a grin, and I take it as my cue to leave. I stand, pulling Prim up to her feet beside me, but as we start to step away I feel Gale’s lithe fingers brush against my forearm.

“Hey. You don’t have to leave,” he says softly.

I shrug, avoiding his eyes. “We were done anyway.”

“Are you around tonight?” He swallows, running a hand through his hair. “I want to talk to you. If you want.”

“Um, sure.” A little spark of hope ignites in my chest. Does it mean he’s ready to be friends again? “D’you want me to stop by, or something?”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’d be good,” he says, nodding. “Just…anytime.”

“Okay.” I glance at Prim, who’s trying very hard to look like she’d not paying attention to our conversation, though she’s only standing a foot away. “Well, we better go.”

“Sure. See you tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG, you guys. I honestly didn't think it would take me this long to update. I'm sorry for keeping you waiting! My schedule just hasn't been very conducive to writing lately. And I did take a break to write a new oneshot, called "found the place to rest my head", an AU where Peeta is rescued from the Capitol unharmed (check it out & let me know what you think!)
> 
> I've also signed up to write a story for Fandom4LLS, so that means I'll probably be working more on that in the next month rather than this story. The good news is you'll be able to read that story this September, AND a bunch of other stories by amazing authors, AND help fight cancer by donating to the cause! Here's the site with more info: http://fandom4lls.blogspot.com/
> 
> So anyway: here's the new chapter. I hope you like it. It's been almost a year since I first started this story, which is INSANE, so I just want to say thank you so much to everyone who's reading it and sticking with it despite my erratic updates. Mwah! :)


	27. twenty-seven

Prim is uncharacteristically quiet for most of the walk home, for which I’m grateful. But just as our neighborhood comes back into view she turns to me, squinting against the sun, and says, “I never asked you. Why don’t you like Gale anymore?”

I frown. Prim was still completely lost in her grief when Gale and I ended it back in the summer, and honestly, I’d been relieved that I didn’t have to hash out our breakup in great detail with her. “I still like Gale,” I say carefully.

“Before you dated you were best friends,” she says skeptically. “Now you don’t even talk.”

I sigh, adjusting my pack over my shoulder. “It’s complicated.”

Prim pauses for a moment, hesitant to ask her next question. “Did he…do something bad?”

I don’t know exactly where her mind is headed – whether it’s to thoughts of Gale cheating on me, or pushing me too far, or even trying to force himself on me – but whatever she’s thinking, it’s completely wrong. “No,” I say quickly. “He ended it with me, actually.”

“Oh.” She doesn’t press for more. “I used to have a crush on Gale, you know,” she says after a long pause, a hint of a smile in her voice.

I look at her incredulously, and laugh. “What? When?”

She grins. “Um, I think when I was nine, and you first brought him around. He’d give me little presents sometimes, like a flower or a pretty rock or something. Remember?”

I smile, thinking fondly back to those early days, when Gale and I had slowly, tentatively allowed the other into our lives. I do remember the little gifts he gave to Prim. That year, Rory and Vick had caught a small garden snake in their backyard, and the boys were secretly keeping it in a box in their bedroom. Gale would collect wildflowers and oddly-shaped rocks and twigs in the woods to decorate the box, and make it “feel like home” for the poor snake. On the days when we stopped by my house to drop off part of a kill, he’d always give one to Prim, and for a nine-year-old who never had anything of her own, they must have seemed quite special.

Her confession does make me wonder, though. “So…you had a crush on _Gale_ ,” I say slowly.

“Yes.” She laughs, rolling her eyes. “I thought he was _so_ handsome.”

“Well, he is,” I admit with a laugh. “Does that mean…um…” I’m not sure how to say it without offending her. “You like girls _and_ boys?”

Prim doesn’t answer. “I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “That was a stupid question.”

“No – it’s okay. I’m just thinking.” Prim purses her lips, looking pensive. “I was so little,” she finally says. “I don’t think it really meant anything, you know?” She shrugs. “I don’t think so. Maybe if it was the right person, but…I don’t think so.”

I nod, but she’s not looking at me, so I touch her elbow gently. “You know I don’t care either way, right?”

The smile she gives me is genuine, but sad. “I know _you_ don’t.”

I grab her hand and squeeze it. “If you ever want to talk –“

“I know,” she interrupts. “And I know that you don’t actually like talking, so, extra thanks.” I laugh a little, and she squeezes my hand back. We don’t let go of each other until we’ve reached home.

\---

My stomach is so jumbled with nerves that evening that it’s hard to choke down my dinner. Mother notices. “Feeling okay?” she asks, pressing the back of her hand against my forehead.

“I’m fine,” I mumble, dragging my fork listlessly through the little pile of peas on my plate. And I am, if you don’t count the knots of anxiety that have been twisting themselves inside of me ever since I saw Gale at the Hob.

I wait until dark to head over to the Hawthornes’, telling my mother and Prim that I’m just going for a walk, though Prim clearly knows where I’m actually going.

Rory opens the door after a few knocks, and doesn’t even bother to greet me. “Gale!” he calls, walking back to the sofa, where he grabs a book and flops onto his back.

Gale emerges from his bedroom after a moment and shakes his head when he sees me standing awkwardly in the doorway. “You could’ve invited her in, Rory,” he says. “Hey.”

“Hi.” I clasp my hands together and wait for him to speak. He’d suggested we have a talk, after all, so I assume he’s got something in mind to talk about.

Gale grabs a jacket from the coat hook by the door and shrugs it over his shoulders. “You okay taking a walk?” he says. “All the kids are around and my mom’s doing laundry out back.”

We head in the direction of the meadow, and for a moment it feels almost like we’ve gone back in time. I can’t even count the number of times we’ve made this walk together over the years. But back then, our silence was clumsy, the typical burden of two awkward teenagers.  Eventually it grew into comfort, familiarity. Only now has it turned heavy and uncomfortable between us.

When we do reach the meadow, Gale continues walking, the tall grass swaying in the breeze around his long legs. I follow him for a few paces before coming to a stop.

“Where are we going, Gale?” I call after him. “You said you wanted to talk.”

As Gale turns, he looks as though he’s on the verge of saying something, but he stops himself. Finally he says, “You’re right,” and takes a few steps back towards me. “Sorry.”

I shrug, wrapping my arms around my middle. “So talk.”

Gale folds his arms over his chest, looking down at the ground, as if he’ll find the words growing there at his feet. “I miss you,” he says finally, looking up to meet my eyes.

I’ve said it before, so I have no problem saying it again. “I miss you, too.”

“I want us to be friends again.” He lifts his head so he’s facing me straight on. “If that’s all we’re gonna be, I’ll just…have to deal with that.”

I force myself to stand very still as I process his admission, though the urge to throw my arms around him is strong. _Friends again._ I don’t want to confuse him – or myself. But this is what I wanted. This is what I’ve been hoping for, ever since he walked away from me that night, raw and wounded.

Gale takes my silence as hesitance, and his face falls a little. “I’m sorry for avoiding you,” he continues, the slightest hint of pleading in his voice. “It was unfair, and immature. But…I was hurt, Katniss. It’s not really an excuse –”

“Stop,” I say. “It’s okay. Let’s…yes. I want to be friends again, too.”

Gale looks at me very seriously. “Really?”

I nod. “Really.”

His face sags in relief. “Okay – okay. Great.”

After a moment’s pause, I step towards him, assuming he’ll want to hug me, too. But Gale steps back, and I freeze.

He swallows, looking uncomfortable. “Catnip.” It sounds like an apology.

“I’m…sorry?” I say, thrown off.

“Look, I have to be honest with you,” Gale sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m not…I do still have feelings for you. I wanted to _marry_ you, Katniss.”

I turn away sharply, tugging on my braid. Did I misread this entire situation? Is Gale taking one last shot at reeling me in to a romance? I don’t know how to answer him. I’m confused, embarrassed – angry.

“I thought you _just_ said you were ready to move past this,” I say harshly.

“I did. I mean – I’m trying. _Shit,_ ” he curses softly. “Look, this isn’t what you’re thinking. I _want_ to move past it. I’m dying to move past it, okay? It’s just not that easy for me.”

I shake my head helplessly. “What do you want me to say, Gale?”

“Nothing,” he sighs. “I’m not expecting anything from you.”

I look around at the empty meadow, bathed in moonlight. “So what is this about?”

“I want to be your friend. I know that you’re not interested in more,” he insists. As he moves closer, my muscles tense in response, and it hits me with a pang that my body reacts so combatively to someone who I once considered to be practically my other half.

“I’m just trying to say – it can’t be the same. I’m just not very good at saying it,” he admits, the corner of his mouth lifting in a humorless grin. “You’re so important to me, Catnip. I don’t want to throw that away. But we can’t just go back to the way things were.”

_Why not?_ the petulant child inside me demands. But my heart sinks; I know that he’s right.

We’ll never move through the woods together the way we once did, easy and free, or show up at the other’s house just to hang out. We’ll never knock on back doors in town again, game bags slung over our shoulders. We’ll never knock knees or bump elbows without feeling strange and guilty about it.

And someday, Gale will find a girl who loves him the way he deserves. He’ll marry her. And then…I won’t be the person Gale trusts with his worst, darkest secrets. I won’t be the person who knows him best. I won’t be Catnip anymore.

It’s a painful thing to realize. But if we’re going to salvage anything good out of our broken past, there are certain things we’ve both got to let go.

“Do you understand?” Gale asks gently.

Blinking back tears, I nod. “Yeah,” I say quietly. “I do.” It will take time, but we’ll be friends again.

Just not _best_ friends.

\---

Gale walks me home, and he doesn’t linger long before heading back to his own house. I take a deep breath to center myself before walking inside.

Only Prim is out in the living room, curled up on the sofa with her diary. She tucks it quickly in the folds of the blanket over her lap. “Hi,” she says.

“Hey.” I sit beside her, smoothing a hand over the soft frizz of hair that’s escaped her ponytail. “What are you up to?”

“Just reading,” she says, her eyes flicking to her lap. “How was talking with Gale?”

I bite my lip, considering how to explain it. “It was tough. But we both want to be friends again.”

Prim smiles hopefully at me. “That’s good.”

“Yeah,” I sigh, closing my eyes as I lay my head back against the cushions. Though the meadow isn’t a long walk from here, I feel drained by my encounter with Gale. I hope this whole process of repairing our friendship isn’t _quite_ as exhausting from here on.

“What did he say about Peeta?” she asks, chewing on her thumbnail nervously.

The question gives me pause. Gale didn’t say anything about Peeta – and neither did I. Because there’s nothing _to_ say about Peeta. Because we’re not a couple, really. We’re just two people who work together, and went on a date. And maybe we kiss sometimes.

“We didn’t talk about Peeta,” I admit.

Prim’s eyebrows lift a little in surprise. “Really? I thought that’s what he wanted to talk to you about.”

It’s not entirely implausible. I’m almost certain that Gale heard Darius teasing me about my supposed preference for blondes at the Hob. If it _had_ been what he wanted to talk about, I would have walked away from the conversation entirely – what goes on between Peeta and me is none of Gale’s business. But I guess he probably thought it was too much for one night. And I think he was right.

“No. It didn’t come up.”

“He’s going to need to know if you have a new boyfriend,” Prim points out.

“Peeta’s not my boyfriend,” I say automatically. Because he isn’t.

But Prim’s words stick with me all night, even as I’m cuddled up beside her in bed, drifting off to sleep.

\---

Boyfriend.

_It’s a stupid word,_ I think grumpily as I trudge into town in the dim morning light. I can be friends with a boy, easy. Even if it involves a little kissing. But tie those two words together and suddenly they – and the kisses – take on all this _meaning._

Unfortunately, it’s also the one word that’s been running through my head ever since I woke up. If I’m not careful I’ll probably blurt it out in the middle of conversation with a customer. Or worse – Peeta.

Peeta is alone in the kitchen when I reach the bakery. “Hi,” I greet him, hovering in the doorway, unsure what to do. Should I say something about our date? Should I act normal, like it’s any other day at work?

I’m leaning towards the latter when Peeta decides for both of us. “Hi.” He approaches me quickly and, with a glance around the room to make sure no one’s here to see, pulls me in for a kiss. I jump, my fingers coming to rest on his arm.

The kiss is quick, but by the time he breaks away I’m breathless anyway. He smiles sheepishly, hunching his shoulders a little as he sticks his hands in his pockets. “Um…sorry. I should’ve asked first.”

He should’ve, but I’m finding it hard to work up much indignation. My lips tingle, and it’s everything I can do just to stop myself from touching them. “I’ll allow it,” I say lightly.

His smile relaxes. “I’ve been thinking about doing that again ever since I left you on your doorstep.”

I blush and shift my gaze somewhere over his shoulder, unable to meet his bright, open eyes any longer. I don’t know how he just… _says_ these things.

“How was your day off?”

This is more familiar territory – he always asks me this when I’m back in the bakery – and a little of the nervous tension leaves me. “It was okay. I took Prim to the Hob.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” he says, pulling one hand from his pocket to curl his fingers around mine loosely. “When are you taking me there?” he teases.

I raise my eyebrows, looking back at him. “I thought you were too chicken for that.”

Peeta squeezes my hand, moving in closer. “Not if I have you to protect me,” he says in a low, playful voice. Unthinking, I close my eyes and tilt my chin, ready to accept his kiss, when the sound of footsteps on the staircase breaks the playful mood.

“Keep it out of the kitchen,” Peeta mutters to himself, backing away from me, and I don’t bother trying to hide my smile. It isn’t his father, though, but Brody who enters the room a moment later, grabbing an apron and throwing it around his neck.

“Oh, gross,” Brody says loudly. “They’re making out on the cookie sheets _again_.”

“Brody, shut _up_ ,” Peeta complains, and I scowl as my face burns red. I wonder how much Brody knows about our date the other night, if anything.

“I’m going to go open up,” I tell Peeta quietly, and he squeezes my hand one more time before letting me go.

I eat lunch with both brothers that afternoon, but Brody and I are left alone for a few minutes when Peeta excuses himself to the bathroom. “Somebody took my advice,” Brody says, flashing a sly grin.

I wipe my mouth with my napkin primly before answering. “Even a broken clock is right twice a day.”

He laughs. “So you admit I was right. Good. That means you won’t use him and lose him.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t, would you,” Brody says, resting his hand on his chin.

I narrow my eyes at him. “I also don’t know what _that_ means.”

“Boy, Peeta’s going to have fun showing _you_ the ropes,” he says. Before I can come up with a retort, Peeta emerges from the restroom, wiping his damp hands on the bottom of his t-shirt.

“I’ll have fun what?” he says, looking curiously between his brother and me.

Brody ignores him, sweeping the crumbs from his lunch off of the tabletop into his cupped hand. “I’ve got some deliveries to make,” he announces, brushing the crumbs off into the trash bin. “You two be good.” He gives Peeta a meaningful look.

Peeta just looks at me, one eyebrow raised, as his brother grabs a sack and heads out the door. “Uh, sorry,” he laughs weakly. “He caught me sneaking in the other night. The floor squeaks in our room and I woke him up.”

I smile at the thought of Peeta attempting to creep through the house unheard. After listening to his thundering footsteps on the gravel road, I’m not sure it’s even possible. “It’s okay.”

“Now that he’s gone, though…” Peeta punctuates his words with a few slow steps towards me. A shiver of anticipation trails down my spine, settling just below my stomach.

“What about your dad?”

Peeta shrugs. He’s standing right before me now, close enough that my knees brush against his thighs. “He’s out.”

“Your mom?”

“Do you _want_ a chaperone, Katniss?” he says, sounding amused. His hand comes to rest on my thigh, just above my knee, and I bite my lip.

“No,” I say, surprised by how breathy my own voice has become. “I just…don’t want to get in trouble.”

I tilt my head towards the front of the bakery meaningfully. Peeta follows my eyes, and shakes his head, chuckling. “You’re so conscientious.”

“You say it like it’s a bad thing,” I say.

“Not for the shop. For me, though?” His fingers slide further up my leg, flexing slightly, and I can feel the warmth of his hands even through the rough fabric of my pants. I wonder if he can feel my heartbeat pounding all throughout my body.

“It’s always slow in the afternoon,” he murmurs. “You don’t need to be out there.”

We stare at each other, saying nothing, as if we’re in some kind of trance. Maybe we are. But finally I force myself to break the silence. “Okay.”

“Okay what?”

I shrug. “I mean…I could take a break. With you.”

I don’t think I’ve ever seen a smile burst onto someone’s face so fast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not happy with this Gale conversation, but I'm sick of working on it. And: believe it or not, today is the one-year anniversary of me posting this fic, so I was determined to update! 
> 
> A billion hugs, kisses and sincere thanks to all of you who are reading, following, reviewing and liking this fic. It's been incredibly encouraging. Love you all!!!


	28. twenty-eight

His breath is hot against my neck, his hair tickling against my jaw. His hands are everywhere. I’ve never felt so wrapped up in another person before. “Katniss,” Peeta breathes, and the sound of his voice low in my ear makes my stomach clench.

Our lips meet again, our tongues brushing against one another. When he sucks on mine gently, tangling his fingers in my hair, I nearly moan from the pleasure.

Peeta had wasted no time pulling me into the back office, shutting the door just in case anyone returned before they were expected. That was ten…maybe twenty…minutes ago; but honestly, I’ve lost any sense of time. There’s just me and Peeta and this dark little room, and the desk where he’d shoved aside a stack of papers before lifting me to sit on the top.

My legs fold around his waist, and he grips me under my thighs, hoisting me up slightly so we’re flush against one another. I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him closer, and he leans forward slightly to rest his hands on the desk for balance. It occurs to me briefly how ridiculous I must look, clinging to Peeta like he’s a tree branch, but I don’t care.

Peeta slides his hand up my back, under my shirt, fingers splayed out to support me. His hand feels cool against my flushed skin. “Can I take this off?” he asks, punctuating the question with a sudden kiss.

“Um…” I take a moment to try and regain my senses. His thumb brushes lightly over my lower back, reminding me how good his hands feel when they’re actually on my body. I want him to do what he did the other night again. To touch me. Use his mouth.

But we’re not _really_ alone right now, the way we were up on the roof of the school. Any one of his family members could burst through the door right now and catch us. If that happens, I’d at least like to be fully clothed when I die of embarrassment.

“Maybe we should get back to work,” I tell him a little sadly. “It’s been a while.”

Peeta buries his face against the crook of my neck and makes a whining noise. “But I want to stay here forever.”

I laugh, pushing him away gently, letting my legs fall away from his sides. “We can’t.”

He sighs, pulling away. “Yeah, you’re right.” He angles his body away from me and adjusts himself discreetly. I avert my eyes. “I’ve really got to get Brody to give me the room for a night,” he says, looking back over his shoulder at me, only half-joking.

My pulse picks up at the implication. I’m not completely naïve; I know that what Peeta and I are doing together is generally something that leads to sex. Eventually. At this point, it just seems so…soon.

Peeta studies me carefully when I don’t answer. “Is that…something that you’d want?” he asks carefully.

I struggle to form the right words, the ones that will explain exactly what I’m feeling: a mixed-up jumble of nerves, excitement, guilt, desire…

Instead, I blurt out, “I’ve never had sex.”

A look of surprise crosses Peeta’s face, though he immediately forces it back into a neutral expression. “Really?”

I cross my arms over my chest, now feeling defensive. “Yeah, really.”

“Oh.” He blinks. “I guess I just thought you and Gale…”

“We didn’t,” I say shortly.

Peeta shrugs. “Okay. Good to know.”

We watch each other for a long beat. “You don’t care?”

“No. Why would I care?” He smiles again, reaching out to trace one finger along my collarbone.

His touch is too distracting. I move to swat his hand away, but he twines his fingers through mine easily, pulling our hands down to rest on my thigh between us. “Because _you_ …you have. Right?” No way that Peeta Mellark is still a virgin after walking around with all those pretty blonde girls on his arm throughout school.

“Well, yeah. But whatever.” He pulls my hand up and presses his lips against my palm in a soft kiss. “I’m not just in this for sex.”

Inside, I melt a little. But if I let him keep touching me we’ll just end up in here for the rest of the afternoon.

“We have to work,” I say, tugging my hand away as I hop off of the desk.

“How’d you know that, anyway?”

“Know what?”

“That I’ve, you know. Slept with someone.”

I shift on my feet, feeling awkward. “I didn’t know for sure. I just thought…you’ve had all these girlfriends.”

“So you did notice me,” he says, almost to himself. He seems so oddly delighted by the idea that I have to smile.

I turn to leave, but Peeta’s hand stops mine on the doorknob. “Wait. One more.” He turns me around for one last, thorough kiss, one hand cradling the back of my head. “Mmm,” he hums when we break apart, as though he’s savoring my taste. “Okay.”

\---

There’s only one customer in the bakery when I finally return to my post out front, a middle-aged woman from town who looks annoyed. “I rang the bell five times,” she says by way of greeting.

“I’m sorry,” I reply automatically. “There was a…emergency with the flour.”

She looks skeptical, but doesn’t care enough to question me any further. I ring her up for a loaf of sourdough bread and then lean back against the wall with a sigh once she’s gone.

Peeta is just a few feet away, on the other side of the door, most likely washing up the mixing bowls and cookie sheets from this morning’s batches. And he’s probably thinking about _me_. The thought makes me feel warm.

But just as suddenly I remember what he’d admitted to me just before we left our little hideaway, and my mood sours. Peeta’s had sex before, probably lots of times, with other girls. With Violet Plumwell, no doubt. Before I can stop myself I’m picturing it, the vague outline of their bodies, his hand on her breast where I’d wanted it on mine just minutes ago.

“Ugh,” I say out loud, rubbing my eyes as if it will wipe away the images.

I’d known that Gale had been involved with other girls before me, but it had never really bothered me. Well, okay – that’s a lie. It had definitely bothered me, because more time spent kissing and fooling around with them meant less time hunting and goofing off with me. But I’d never wished _I_ was the one kissing him instead.

It’s just different with Peeta. Everything is different with him. I don’t really know why.

I decide not to think about it.

Mr. Mellark and Brody are both back in the kitchen when it’s time for me to leave, but Peeta follows me outside anyway. I only make it a few steps before he takes my hand and tugs me back towards him.

He doesn’t try to kiss me, like I expect, but takes both my hands in his. His palms are slightly damp – he’s nervous. “Hey. I just want to apologize if I said or…did anything that made you uncomfortable today.”

I meet his eyes, which are as open and vulnerable as ever. I trust him, I realize, even if he might be a step or two ahead of me in this whole thing. “No,” I say. “I’ll tell you if you’re doing something I don’t like.”

“Promise?” I nod. “Okay. Good. I just…god, I like you _so much_ , Katniss.” He laughs shakily. “I don’t want to screw up.”

“I know.” Realizing how awful that sounds, I quickly add, “I like you too.”

Peeta smiles, shifting closer. “Yeah?” He leans in and presses his lips to mine in a chaste kiss that rapidly becomes…well, not quite chaste. It’s not until my back hits the rough brick wall of the bakery that I realize what we’re doing – again – and where we’re doing it.

“Peeta, someone might see,” I complain, squirming out of his arms.

He leans against the wall with a snort. “Who? The pigs?”

I roll my eyes. “No…just…anyone walking by.”

“So?” he asks, a hint of challenge in his voice.

“So, I don’t want them to get the wrong idea.”

Peeta straightens up. “What would be the wrong idea?”

I don’t want to say it. There are so many ways our neighbors might interpret the sight of us together: That he pities me. That I’m using him for his family’s money. That we’re in love.

All of them are wrong.

“I don’t know,” I mumble. “Forget it.”

“You had something in mind,” he says quietly. I look away, my stomach churning. “Katniss?”

“I don’t know what the wrong idea is,” I finally say. “I don’t really know what the _right_ idea is.”

An odd look washes over his features. “Do you…I mean, d’you want this to be official?”

As usual, my mouth skips a dozen steps ahead before my brain can rein it in. “Peeta, I’m not getting _married_ ,” I stammer.

His mouth falls open a little. “Um – I don’t mean _that_ official,” he says, eyes wide. “I just meant…do you want to be my girlfriend?”

_Oh. Right._

This is what I know: I want to keep spending time with Peeta. I want to kiss him, and talk with him, and laugh at his jokes. What I don’t want are the expectations. That someday we’ll get married. That someday we’ll have children.

When you’re growing up, all those things feel so far in the future; a future you’re not even guaranteed to have. But then you make it through the Reaping, and suddenly here it is: the rest of your life.

There are couples my age getting engaged and married now. There are girls Gale’s age with newborns – my mother has helped deliver half of them. And when I see them, flushed and happy, I don’t understand. They think that because they were lucky, their children will be, too. But I’m not willing to gamble on my child’s life that way.

Is it fair to project all my anxieties about the future onto Peeta, though? Until I brought it up, he’s never said a word about marrying me or having babies. Maybe he doesn’t want them, either.

“I…maybe?” I finally say.

“Well, if you think about it, you kind of already are,” he says slowly.

“How’s that?”

Peeta moves closer, resting his hands on my hips. “You went on the best date ever with me…you skipped work to make out with me…you think about me all day and all night…” At my look, he grins sheepishly. “Okay, that last one might have been me.”

“Say I was your girlfriend,” I say. “What would it mean?”

“What would it mean?” I nod. “It means…that we care about each other.” Peeta shrugs. “It means whatever we want it to mean.”

I wonder if he knows just how perfect that answer sounds to me. “Oh, and it means I can kiss you whenever I want,” he adds. Before I can say anything, he leans in and starts to pepper my face with light kisses.

“Stop,” I laugh, pulling away. Peeta obeys, stilling his teasing hands, but he doesn’t let go entirely, wrapping me up in his arms so I’m gathered against his chest. I relax into a sigh.

“It means we’ll always feel like this,” he mumbles into my hair, so softly I’m not quite sure if he meant me to hear it. My lips curve up into a sad smile. I know it’s not true. But I also know that Peeta believes it, and I like that. I like that he _hopes_ for things.

“Okay,” I say quietly. “I can live with that.”

Peeta pulls back slightly to look into my eyes. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

In answer he bends down and scoops me up in a bear hug, lifting my feet off the ground. We smile at each other like a couple of fools, unsure what to say.

It’s almost surreal. _Peeta Mellark – the boy with the bread – is my boyfriend._

He lets me down after a moment. “Hang on a sec,” he says abruptly, and disappears back inside the bakery. When he emerges a minute or two later he’s got a jacket on and a small bag of cookies dangling from his hand.

“I just had to check if I could leave a little early,” he explains.

“Where are you going?”

The smile he gives me is steeped in affection. “I’m walking you home.”

\---

Peeta suggests we take the long route home – the winding path through the back streets that we followed the night of our date – and I agree. I know that for Peeta, it’s about drawing out our time together. I can’t say that didn’t occur to me, too. But I’m also not quite ready for anyone and everyone to see me walking home with Peeta Mellark, sharing sugar cookies with him1, holding his hand.

The sky is still bright by the time we reach the Seam, and an idea comes to me. “Do you want to see the meadow?”

With summer past, the meadow isn’t quite as nice to look at during this time of year, but the very first leaves starting to turn red and orange in the forest beyond give it a nice backdrop. “Prim brings her goat here to feed a lot,” I explain. “Sometimes it’s nice to just come lay around.”

“Oh, yeah. I’ve been here,” Peeta says.

My jaw drops a little. I didn’t think anyone from town ventured out this far, not unless they were brought here by someone like me. “You have?”

He nods. “I used to come out here and draw the flowers when I was little.”

I’m not sure what to say. One thing is clear: There are an endless number of hidden facets to Peeta that I haven’t even begun to imagine. “I’m surprised you weren’t too scared.”

His smile is grim. “Well, that was before I got old enough to know the stupid rumors about what goes on out here.” His expression turns a little shy. “Plus I knew there was this really pretty girl who lived out here, so it couldn’t be all bad.”

My face grows warm, and I try to change the subject. “You like to draw?”

“I do.” Peeta nods enthusiastically.

“Just flowers?”

“No, I’ll draw anything,” he says. “Things I see. Things I dream about. I can show you sometime, if you’d like.”

I smile. “That would be nice.”

We don’t linger too long, since it’s getting cool outside, and it’s my turn to cook dinner tonight. If I was any other girl, I’d invite him to stay and eat with us. But there’s only enough rabbit meat to serve three tonight, and until I’m paid next week, no money for extra.

Peeta takes it in stride, like he does everything. “It’s okay. It’s a little early for meet-the-family. Even though you already know mine.”

“I don’t know the mysterious Ned,” I point out. He and Brody make passing references to their eldest brother now and then, but he’s never turned up at the bakery, at least not when I’ve been around.

“Well, I can fix that,” he says. “Come to the toasting this weekend.”

His invitation takes me by surprise. I’d sort of just assumed that the toasting had already happened, since Peeta had mentioned it several months ago.

“Oh, I don’t know…” I say slowly. “I’ve never even met your brother. I don’t even know his fiancée’s name.”

“Her name’s Etta. Now you know it.”

“Peeta…”

“It’ll be fun,” he insists.

“But I’m not family,” I say, knowing it’s a weak argument. Some people keep their toasting private, inviting only close family, but just as many couples invite the whole neighborhood over to watch them feed each other bread.

“You’re important to me,” Peeta says seriously. “That’s all that matters.”

I cast around for any last excuse. “I don’t have anything to wear.”

“You looked beautiful in the dress you wore to Brody’s birthday party. Wear that.”

“What if I have to work?”

He gives me a look. “Katniss, we’re obviously closing the bakery for my brother’s wedding.”

I squeeze my eyes shut in annoyance, knowing I’ve lost this battle. “Oh, fine.”

Peeta kisses my cheek. “They’ll love you. My dad and Brody already do. It’ll be fun, I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys deserve a nice, fluffy, cute chapter by now. Hope you enjoy! 
> 
> Also, I realized that the end scene of the last chapter probably sounded kind of weird because I wrote the latter half as though Katniss were sitting down, but I never actually made her sit down...so if Peeta touching her leg & stuff seems weird, imagine that she's sitting on a high stool and it will make more sense. haha


	29. twenty-nine

Sunday arrives before I know it. Mother and I sit before the mirror that hangs above the bureau in my bedroom, and she plaits my hair into an intricate series of braids, the way she always did for the Reaping each year. I’m wearing her orange dress. Prim sits on the bed and watches as Mother helps me get ready.

“I wish I had a reason to get dressed up,” she says enviously.

I look at her in the mirror’s reflection. “You want to take my place? Go right ahead.”

Prim rolls her eyes. “Obviously not.” I almost remind her that she _does_ have a reason to get dressed up – she’ll have it for the next four years, at the beginning of every summer when they hold the Reaping. But it’s a cruel thought, and I keep my mouth shut.

Prim was thrilled when I told her that I’d agreed to call Peeta my boyfriend. But in the days since, her moods have seesawed wildly up and down: sweet and pleasant one day, sullen and morose the next. I try to take it as a good sign, that she’s settling back into “teenager” mode, as Gale had warned me. But I find myself biting back harsh words more often than not, and it’s getting to be exhausting.

“All done,” Mother says, softly patting the back of my hair. Placing her hands gently on my shoulders, she angles my body to the side, then holds up her small handheld mirror so I can see my hairdo in the reflection.

“Pretty,” I say.

“You look _beautiful_ ,” Prim says darkly, again with more than a hint of jealousy.

Mother hands me the mirror and turns to Prim. “Prim, shouldn’t you be taking Lady on her lunchtime walk?”

With a heavy sigh, Prim pushes herself off of the bed and trudges out into the kitchen.

I wait until I hear the front door close behind her to speak. “She’s driving me crazy.”

Mother sighs. “Oh, I know. She’s driving me crazy, too.”

“I want to say something, but…I don’t want to upset her.”

“I know.” Her eyes rove over her handiwork as she tucks in little fly-aways here and there. “You’re doing everything right, Katniss. Don’t worry about your sister today. Just have fun.”

I snort. “Yeah, okay.”

“You do look beautiful. And at the very least, I’m sure there will be a delicious cake to eat.” She pauses. “And a handsome young man to dance with.”

I wrinkle my nose. She sits back, her eyes finally landing on my face. “You look so grown up,” she says, with more than a hint of wistfulness.

“Ugh, stop.” I’ve never been one for sentimental moments, especially not with my mother. “I’mnot the one getting married.”

“I was married at just about your age,” she says, watching me as I stand and smooth out the skirt of my dress in the mirror. I catch her eye in the reflection and she smiles.

“Well, I’m not you,” I say shortly.

“That is true,” Mother says, standing to scoop up the extra hair pins from where they lay on top of the bureau. “But please _try_ to enjoy yourself.”

\---

A few hours later, I’m repeating her words like a mantra in my head. _Try to enjoy yourself. Enjoy yourself. Enjoy yourself._

Technically, Ned and Etta are already married by the time I show up at the park, having signed their papers at the Justice Building a bit earlier in the day. Their toasting and the party are taking place in the same park where Brody celebrated his birthday; I suppose it’s the go-to place for Merchant parties in good weather, the way we always hold ours in the meadow in the Seam. Peeta spots me immediately as I turn the corner, and I can’t hold back my nervous smile as he strides towards me, a grin spreading across his own face.

“Hi,” he says, greeting me with a brief kiss.

“Hello.” I peer over his shoulder at the small crowd gathered by the picnic tables, which have been pushed together into one row, creating a larger table that seats dozens. “Am I late?”

“No, there are still more people coming,” he says, running his hand over my shoulder and down my arm, tangling our fingers together. “I like your dress,” he teases.

I smile, fingering the sleeve of his collared blue jacket. “I like your jacket.”

Peeta laughs. “I’ve had it for years, and it’s only now starting to fit. You should’ve seen me in it a year ago.”

My smile falls a little as I take in the faces behind him, very few of them familiar. “I don’t know anyone here.”

“Sure you do,” he says. “Etta just has a big family. C’mon, I’ll introduce you.”

I let Peeta drag me over by the hand, waving at Brody when he catches my eye. He wiggles his fingers back, seeming a little subdued, but I don’t have much time to think about it before Peeta stops and I stumble into his back.

“This is Katniss,” Peeta says, laughing a little as he places a hand on my back to steady me. “My um, girlfriend.” His eyes flick to me for a moment, as if seeking approval. “Katniss, this is my brother Ned, and my lovely sister-in-law, Etta.”

Peeta’s eldest brother is a little taller than Peeta, and a little thinner, but the family resemblance is unmistakable in his blue eyes and ashy blond hair. His bride, Etta, is wholly deserving of Peeta’s compliment, her golden hair falling in soft waves over a pretty, pale face. Her dress is one of the fancier ones you can rent in town, with a vine pattern embroidered across the bodice in ivory thread. The bridal dresses I’ve seen at Seam weddings are plainer, just simple white cotton tucked and pinned in all the places where they’ve been stretched out over the years.

Ned shakes my hand. “Pleased to meet you, Katniss,” he says formally. “Thank you for coming. I know Peeta’s quite fond of you.”

“Oh. Um, thank you for having me,” I say, sure that my own face matches the slight blush that’s appeared on Peeta’s cheeks.

“Yes, it’s nice to meet you,” Etta adds, clasping my hand in lieu of a quick handshake. “We’re just so happy that Peeta has someone.” I smile at her, unsure what to say. After a pause, she adds, “We’ve heard you’ve been such an asset to the bakery since Ned left.”

I glance up at Peeta, but he studiously avoids my eyes, his face even redder. I wonder how much he’s told them about me.

“Well – thank you,” I say. They smile back blandly, and we all stand in a moment of awkward silence until Peeta clears his throat.

“Well, Katniss just got here, so I think she needs a drink. Want a drink?” I nod enthusiastically and follow him to the end of the long table, where a few pitchers of water are set out for the guests, along with a few bottles of wine that haven’t been corked yet.

Peeta pours me a glass of water, and then one for himself. “Sorry about that,” he finally says. “They’re just kind of…awkward.”

“I didn’t notice,” I say.

Peeta stares at me, his shoulders relaxing as a smile spreads over his face. “Don’t lie,” he laughs, leaning against the edge of the table. “You were super uncomfortable.”

I try to purse my lips into a serious expression, though it’s a losing battle. “It sounds like they know more about me than I know about them.”

Peeta’s grin grows bigger as he leans in. “Well, maybe I just like to brag about you.” His hands slip around my waist and I smile, tilting my head up as he draws closer –

“Peeta.” A sharp, female voice interrupts our flirting, and I crane my head around to find Peeta’s mother standing about ten feet behind me. Peeta steps back from me, shoving his hands into his pockets. My own fingers fly up to my shoulder in search of my braid, but I find nothing but air. _Right. I’ve got fancier braids today._ I twist them nervously in the folds of my skirt instead.

“We need your help moving the cake,” she says, ignoring my presence. “Stop fooling around.”

“Why can’t Brody do it?” he asks.

She rolls her eyes. “Your brother is…nevermind. Come on, your father’s waiting.”

Peeta sighs. Once her back is turned he squeezes my hand apologetically, but he follows after her anyway.

I pour myself another glass of water and gulp it down quickly. My encounters with Mrs. Mellark have been few and far between since that day she found me making cookies in the kitchen, but when we do interact, her presence never fails to catch me off-guard. This is the first time I’ve seen her since Peeta and I made it “official,” but even so, I’m certain that I’m the very last person she ever wanted to see cozying up to her son.

“Hey.” Brody sidles up beside me then, nudging me with his elbow. “How’s it going?”

I shrug, unsure if he saw his mother interrupt Peeta and I. “Fine. You?”

Brody reaches inside his jacket and flashes a piece of metal at me – a flask. “I’m doing just fine.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “You’re drunk?”

“I’m not drunk,” he insists, though the slight drawl in his voice would indicate otherwise. “Just taking the edge off. Want some?”

It’s tempting, but if Peeta’s mother catches me sipping liquor from Brody’s flask it’ll only confirm all the terrible things I’m sure she already believes about me. “I’ll pass.”

With a shrug, Brody unscrews the cap and takes a quick sip, screwing his face up at the taste. “Your loss.” He swigs some water straight from one of the pitchers. “Personally, I won’t make it through dinner without a buzz on.”

I scoff. “At least it’s your family.”

“Yeah. My _family_.” Brody raises his eyebrows at me. “So what topic do you think we’ll be discussing tonight? _Oh, Brody, when are you going to meet a nice girl and settle down and make babies?_ ” he says, mimicking a high-pitched voice.

“I take it back. Drink up.”

“Oh I will, Katniss. I will.” To prove his point, he makes a show of tipping the flask into an empty glass, filling it about halfway before topping it off with water. My lip curls up in disgust as he takes a sip. Brody shrugs. “Gotta pace myself, you know?” He wanders off without another word.

Without Peeta or Brody around as a buffer, I sit uncomfortably at the end of the table, smiling politely at the few guests who wander over to pour themselves a glass. Every last one of them is light-skinned, neatly dressed, and well-fed. Normally I wouldn’t care – they’re exactly the type of people who frequent the bakery – but at this moment, I’m not just the shop girl anymore. We’re on equal footing as guests. And their forced smiles make me incredibly conscious of my dark hair and eyes, of the sharp angles of my body, my elbows, my knees.

After all – I don’t really belong here. These people don’t know me. And if they did know me, even the most basic things about me, they’d tell Peeta to find a more suitable girl, anyway.

Peeta does reappear, eventually, though not before enough time has passed for my thoughts to wander further down that dark path.

“I am so sorry,” he says before I can open my mouth. “My mom kept finding more and more chores for me to do, and Brody’s already drunk off his ass, so _he_ couldn’t do it –“

“It’s fine,” I say.

Peeta studies me, seeming unconvinced. Maybe he already knows me better than I thought. “It’s almost time for the toasting,” he finally says, entwining his fingers through mine. “Then there’s just dinner and then…we can hang out.”

I bite my lip and nod. Peeta’s gaze softens, and he lifts his other hand to the crown of my head, brushing his fingers lightly over my hair. “I didn’t tell you how beautiful you look today,” he says softly.

I roll my eyes, but my stomach flips a little at his words. “Come on,” I sigh. “Let’s go watch the toasting.”

\---

Ned and Etta toast their bread at the edge of a small bonfire, then feed it to one another with trembling fingertips. It’s all over in a matter of seconds, and then everyone launches into the traditional District 12 wedding song.

I sing along, too, until I feel Peeta’s eyes on me. He isn’t singing – just watching me, his mouth slightly open. I blush, snapping my mouth shut. _What_? I mouth the word at him.

“No, keep singing,” he says, but I shake my head, embarrassed at being caught. I don’t sing in front of other people anymore. Not since my father died.

At dinner I’m seated between Peeta and Etta’s younger sister. Her name is Flynn, or Fenn, or something like that, and she’s a year or two older than me. To be honest, when she introduces herself to me, I’m too distracted by the appearance of Peeta’s hand on my bare knee to really process any of the details.

The food itself is nothing special: plenty of bread, a few pot pies, potatoes and green beans for sides. What’s remarkable is that two families were able to provide it all for two dozen people. Peeta doesn’t seem to think anything of it, but to me, it’s a stark reminder of just how different our situations are.

Even though I’m dying to stuff myself, I eat slowly, taking care to mind the manners my mother taught me years ago: elbows off the table, sit up straight, set down your knife when you’re taking a bite. Every few minutes Peeta stops eating to squeeze my knee, or nudge my arm, or brush his lips fleetingly against my temple. And every time he does, I let myself relax a little more.

As the sun starts to set and my belly starts to fill, I feel better. Though I’m loathe to admit it, food is all it really takes to calm me down ninety percent of the time. At some point Peeta pours me a glass of wine, and though I sip at it very slowly, I quickly begin to feel the same pleasant, fuzzy warmth that I remember from Brody’s birthday party spreading through me.

Peeta’s gentle, reassuring touches don’t hurt my mood, either. When my plate is clean I lean into him slightly and close my eyes, tuning out the low hum of conversation around me as his arm comes to rest around my shoulders.

I keep them closed even as I feel him lean in closer, his breath hot against my ear. “Done eating?”

“Mmm,” I hum, too comfortable to answer.

“You want to get out of here?”

That gets my attention. I crack one eye open, looking at him suspiciously. “They haven’t even cut the cake yet.”

Peeta shrugs. “Maybe we’ve got better things to do.”

“What are you suggesting?”

He raises his eyebrows innocently. “I’m not suggesting anything. Sounds like you’re the one suggesting something.”

I shut my eye again. “Then no. I’m fine here.”

“Hang on. I never said I was _opposed_ to sugges-“

“Peeta, would you sit up straight?” His mother’s exasperated voice pipes up from across the table, and my eyes flick open. She’s seated a few feet to our left. Peeta leans away from me slowly, though he leaves his arm slung around my shoulder. Apparently satisfied, Mrs. Mellark continues, clearly carrying on from a conversation that Peeta and I had ignored.

“I always thought it would be Peeta next,” she says, waving one hand in our direction. Half the table turns to look at us.

“Next at what, Mom?” Peeta asks, sounding wary.

“Marriage,” she says. “He and Violet Plumwell were just crazy about one another,” she continues, giving a knowing look to the woman seated beside her. Etta’s mother, I think. “I’ve never seen him so taken with a girl.”

I can feel Peeta tense up beside me, but I don’t dare lift my eyes from my plate. “Not really,” Peeta says flatly, after a moment’s pause. “We were better off as friends.”

“Friends?” she repeats. “Friends don’t make the kind of noises I caught you making in your bedroom with her.”

I don’t know if the table actually does go silent, or if it just sounds that way thanks to the rushing of blood in my ears. Peeta says nothing. Beneath the table, his hands are balled into fists.

“Why didn’t you invite Violet tonight?” his mother continues. “She would have loved to be here.”

“I broke up with Violet months ago, Mom,” Peeta says. “I’m with Katniss.”

Mrs. Mellark raises her eyebrows and looks away, taking a sip of wine. “For now,” she says under her breath, just loud enough for me to hear.

After a long, awful silence, Peeta’s father clears his throat and asks Etta’s dad how business is coming along at the grocery. Then Peeta stands abruptly, and grabs my hand.

“Let’s go,” he says quietly. I look up at him; his face is suffused with red, so bright I half expect to see steam coming out of his ears. I let him pull me up from my seat.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Mrs. Mellark says.

“Somewhere else,” Peeta says.

“I didn’t give you permission to leave.”

“Good thing I don’t need it, then.” He turns to where Ned and Etta are seated in the middle of the table. “Ned, Etta…congratulations. I love you both.” They both look uncomfortable at the display, but Ned nods his head.

Peeta turns to leave, and I follow him without another word, too stunned to process what’s just happened.

\---

He leads us to the Meadow, all the way across the district. When we reach the edge, Peeta drops my hand and strides purposefully away, his legs swallowed up by the long grass. Instinctively, I know that I shouldn’t follow. He keeps going until he’s almost reached the fence. He stops. From hundreds of yards away, I hear him scream, “Fuck!”

I watch as he kicks at something on the ground. He runs his hands roughly through his hair and, back still turned to me, drops down to the ground, invisible in the meadow.

I hesitate for only a moment, then hike up my skirt and follow after him. I’ll probably spend hours picking ticks off of my bare legs by candlelight tonight, but I don’t care. I just need to get to Peeta.

He’s sitting in a bare patch of dirt, arms looped around his knees in front of him. He doesn’t look up when I settle onto the ground across from him, mimicking his position.

We sit in silence for awhile. “I don’t even know where to begin to apologize to you,” he mumbles, picking at a blade of grass.

My stomach sinks unpleasantly. “You didn’t do anything.”

“I should have. I should have told her to fuck off.” Peeta looks up at me. “She made that up. She never caught me with anyone in my bedroom.”

I don’t understand. “Why would she make it up?”

Peeta snorts. “Because she loves making everyone around her feel miserable. She sees that I’m happy with you, and oh, no, we can’t have that.”

He doesn’t say it, but he knows just as well as I do that there’s more to it than that. His mother didn’t care when it was Violet Plumwell making him happy. But I’m different. I’m too dark. Too poor.

Peeta frowns, tugging sharply at a piece of grass. “We all just let her do it. Because we have to live with her. And it’s easier that way.”

“You don’t have to live with her forever,” I say, trying to find the bright side.

Peeta lifts his head, giving me a pained look. “Yeah, but…you can only get a house if you’re married. And you don’t –”

He stops, abruptly, but it’s too late. My heart lurches painfully into my throat, beating rapidly. Was he starting to say what I think he was?

“It doesn’t matter,” Peeta says, his cheeks flooding with color. “She can’t treat you that way. You don’t deserve that.”

“Neither do you,” I say.

Peeta smiles sadly, looking down at his hands. “Yeah,” he says eventually. “It took me a really long time to figure that out, though.”

My chest aches for him. I push myself forward onto my knees, wrapping my arms around Peeta in a clumsy embrace. He hugs me back fiercely, and shifts his legs open so I can nestle between them, pressed against his chest. I feel his heart beat against me, strong and steady.

“Katniss,” he sighs into my hair.

“What?”

He breathes in deeply, just once. “Nothing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey friends! Apologies for taking so long to write this chapter! It was delayed in part due to my participation in Fandom4LLS, a charity drive to raise money for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society. Donate $10 or more at fandom4lls.blogspot.com, and you'll get to read DOZENS of THG fics written just for the drive - not available anywhere else. You only have until August 30, so don't wait! You can read a teaser of my fic here: http://fandom4lls.blogspot.com/2013/08/teaser-and-we-tumble-to-ground-and-then.html
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter! Please let me know what you think! :)


	30. thirty

We end up lying side by side on the grass, watching the sky slowly darken. Eventually Peeta rolls onto his side to face me, propping himself up on one elbow.

“Etta told me she thought you were really pretty,” he says, lips twitching into a small smile.

A blush warms my cheeks, but I roll my eyes. “At least someone in your family likes me.”

“Most of them do.” He pauses. “It’s weird. That she’s in my family now.”

“Yes, that’s what usually happens when people get married,” I say, teasing.

“Mm. True.” His smile slowly fades, and Peeta clears his throat. “So you don’t _ever_ want to be married.”

It’s the last conversation I want to have right now. I tilt my head away from him, focusing on a pebble a few inches from my face. “Nope.”

“What if your husband promised to bring you cheese buns in bed every single morning?”

My heart skitters to a stop. I can’t believe he’d even suggest – after everything that happened tonight – and we’ve only known each other for what, a few months –?

I take a deep breath. “Peeta –“

“I’m kidding!” he insists immediately. “Seriously, I was kidding.”

I don’t answer, but I can hear him shift a little closer behind me. “Why’d you stop singing today?” he asks softly.

“I don’t sing.” My eyes flit over and meet his for a brief moment before I look away.

“But you have a beautiful voice.”

I snort. “Not really.”

“Yes, really.” But he lets the subject drop.

We lay in silence for a few moments, and I shiver as a light breeze picks up. Peeta sits up abruptly, shrugging out of the jacket that I’d admired earlier in the evening. I don’t realize what he’s doing until it’s draped over my own torso. He lays back down and tugs on my arm, rolling me over to face him before he wraps one arm around my middle and tucks me into his chest. Our legs tangle together like they know exactly where to fit.

“Thanks,” I whisper. He presses his lips against my hair in response.

For a few minutes I allow myself to enjoy his embrace, to breathe in his scent and soak up his warmth. His chin rests gently against the top of my head. It feels…good. Better than that. Like it’s exactly where I want to be right now.

But even though it should be a perfect moment, I can’t stop his mother’s words from bouncing around the inside of my skull.

_Friends don’t make those kinds of noises._

I chew on my bottom lip, unsure if I really want an answer to what I’m about to ask. “Your mom really never caught you with anyone?” I say quietly.

His muscles tense, almost imperceptibly, but we’re so wrapped up in one another that there’s no way I can miss it. My heart sinks. “No,” he says. “Never.”

I keep my eyes trained on the collar of his shirt, peeking out beneath his sweater. “But you and Violet,” I press. “You were together.”

Peeta sighs deeply. “I don’t want to talk about Violet, Katniss,” he says, voice muffled as he presses his nose against my hair.

“Well, maybe I do,” I say stubbornly.

He pulls back slightly so he can angle his chin down and meet my eyes. “Why are you asking me this?” he asks. “What do you want me to say?”

My face heats suddenly with a rush of unshed tears. I don’t know _why_ I can’t move past this idea – this image of Peeta and Violet _together_ – and it only makes the frustration worse. There is no right answer he could give me. It’s too late for that. The fact that he never actually answered my question is an answer in itself.

“I don’t know,” I admit.

“I hate that my mom put these thoughts in your head.” He sounds defeated, more sad than angry.

I hate it, too. And I know that it’s exactly what she wanted. But she didn’t really put them there: she only drew them to the surface, dragging them up from the dark places in my mind where I’d tucked them away to hide.

“I’m sorry you’re upset. But I can’t undo things,” Peeta says. “I’m not comparing you to her. I never even think about her. I mean, are you comparing me to Gale when you’re with me?”

Truthfully, yes – not all of the time, but some of it. I have no frame of reference for what I’m doing with Peeta otherwise. But every single time, Peeta has emerged the victor.

“No,” I tell him.

“Then stop worrying about it,” he says, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “I like _you_. Everyone else is just…background noise.”

* * *

 

Peeta holds my hand as he walks me home from the meadow, but there’s a coolness between us now. It’s not borne of unfamiliarity, or nervousness, or the weight of things owed, like it might have been in the past. It’s worse than that. And I can’t stand it.

So when he pulls his hand away and leans in to kiss me goodnight, I refuse to let go. “Stay,” I tell him.

His lips curl into a half-smile, half-smirk, like he thinks I’m playing with him. “Don’t tempt me.”

“I mean it.” I take his other hand in mine and squeeze it.

The smile fades from his eyes as he sees I’m serious. “Katniss…”

“You can’t go back there tonight,” I argue.

“Where am I going to sleep?” He already knows that I share a bed with Prim, and even if I didn’t, there’s no way my mother would allow him to spend the night in bed with me. Her benevolent neglect only goes so far.

“The sofa. It’s comfy,” I add quickly. “I fall asleep there all the time.”

Peeta studies me for a long, quiet moment. “Why?”

I feel stupid saying it, and it might even offend him. But there’s no point in lying to him. “I don’t think you should go home tonight.”

His face softens, and without another word he wraps his arms around me. He squeezes me tight for a moment before he speaks. “I told you. She doesn’t do that anymore.”

“I know.” But the image is crystal clear in my mind, and I can’t shake it: a smaller version of Peeta in the hallway at school, the tender skin around his eye purple and swollen. Because of me. Because of what he’d done _for_ me.

Peeta pulls back to look me in the eye. “Will it really make you feel better if I stay?”

A lump forms in my throat, and I nod quickly. As awkward as it might be to tell my mother that my new boyfriend needs to spend the night on our couch, I’ll at least be able to fall asleep this way, knowing that he’s safe from whatever consequences he’ll eventually face for walking out on dinner.

As it turns out, Mother doesn’t require much explanation for Peeta’s stay. “I’m so pleased to finally meet you, Peeta,” she says with uncharacteristic warmth, clasping his hand in her own. “Katniss doesn’t bring boys home very often.”

 _More like never_ , I almost say, biting my tongue when I remember Gale. That was different, though. He was a friend first.

Peeta smiles and takes my hand, squeezing it briefly. “I’m lucky, I guess.”

I expect more questions from her, but she shifts immediately into hostess mode and produces an extra set of bedding I didn’t even know we had, sheets and pillow and blanket and all. She insists on making up the sofa herself, while Peeta and I sit awkwardly on the kitchen chairs that we drag into the living room, chatting with Prim about her homework assignment.

“How was the toasting?” Prim asks, clearly unenthused by her required reading on sedimentary rocks.

I look at Peeta, expecting some hesitance, but he launches right in to a glowing description of the bride, the groom, the food, the fire. “Honestly, it was everything you could want in a toasting,” he concludes, conveniently neglecting to mention how the evening had ended.

“It was really nice,” I agree. _With one glaring exception._ Mother catches my eye, and I realize instantly that she has at least some idea of what happened, and why we’re here.

I wonder how well Mother actually knows Peeta’s mom, and if it has anything to do with her sudden willingness to be so accommodating. Could she guess how Mrs. Mellark reacted to my presence on their family’s big day?

Maybe she knows from experience. Maybe everyone knows this is what happens when you mix Seam folk and merchants at a toasting. Everything burns.

Mother and Prim both turn in early, leaving Peeta and I alone, sitting side by side on the couch. It feels strange having him here in my little house, but not in a bad way. I’m surprised to realize that I’m not embarrassed by how sparsely it’s furnished, and how worn and threadbare our belongings are. Maybe because it’s clear that he’s welcome here, something he can’t promise me in his own home.

He takes my hand and rubs his thumb over my skin in a soothing motion, back and forth. “You should go to bed,” he says quietly. “We have work in the morning.”

I make a face, and Peeta laughs. “Do we have to?”

“Yes,” he says firmly. “Brody will probably still be drunk in the morning. We’re needed.”

I smirk, but Peeta sighs, leaning back as he runs a hand over his face. “I wish he’d just move on. I mean, our brother got married. He should be happy.”

I bite my lip, considering my response. “I think he’s happy for him,” I say slowly.

Peeta shrugs. “He acts like he’s the only person on earth who’s had his heart broken.”

Knowing what I know, the urge to defend Brody is strong. But knowing what _Peeta_ doesn’t know…I can’t. “Maybe there’s more to it,” I say, hoping it’s vague enough that I don’t sound like I actually know what I’m talking about.

He doesn’t seem to catch on. “Mmm,” is all he says. He shifts a little closer to me and lays his arm around my shoulders, squeezing me against his side in a hug. “Thank you for coming today. I guess it kind of lived up to your nightmares.”

I give him a half smile. “My nightmares can get a lot worse than that.” As soon as I say it, though, I want to take it back; it feels too much like an admission of something that I don’t want him to know. Peeta frowns, and I lean in quickly to peck him on the cheek. “You’re right though, we should go to sleep. I’ll wake you up in the morning.”

“Wait.” He pulls me in for a quick, firm kiss, our lips parting with a soft _smack._ “Goodnight.”

“Night.”

At the bedroom door I stop and look back over my shoulder into the living room, where he’s unbuttoning the checkered shirt that he wore beneath his sweater today. The flash of skin I see reminds me suddenly of our date on the roof. He’d taken his shirt off then, too, but I was too preoccupied by the fact that minewas coming off, too, to appreciate it at the time.

I turn my head before he can see me watching, and step into the bedroom silently, shutting the door behind me before I can do anything stupid.

* * *

 

Peeta is already up and dressed by the time I shuffle back out into the living room to wake him the next morning, stirring something on the stovetop. I blink at him blearily. I shouldn’t be surprised – he’s been living on the bakery’s schedule a lot longer than I have.

“Good morning,” he greets me, leaning in for a kiss when I reach his side. I turn my face away.

“I haven’t even brushed my teeth yet.”

“Don’t care,” he says, but he plants a brief kiss on my cheek anyway. “Sorry, I hope this is okay. I woke up early and I thought you’d be hungry and I found oatmeal…”

“Yeah, that’s fine.” I nod encouragingly, and he smiles. I turn away and start pulling out bowls and spoons from the cupboard to busy myself.

If last night I was struck by how normal it was to have Peeta in my house, this morning feels like the precise opposite. It’s not even sunrise, and he’s already making me breakfast. Giving me a casual, good-morning kiss. The intimacy is startling. A little scary, even.

“When do your mom and your sister wake up?” he asks quietly. “I wanted to make them some, too, but it’ll get gross if it sits out too long.”

“It’s okay,” I tell him. “They won’t be up for a few hours.” But his thoughtfulness tickles me, and I have to hide the smile threatening to slip across my face.

Thanks to Peeta’s head start on breakfast, we actually depart for the bakery a bit earlier than I usually leave the house. “This is cool,” he remarks, leaves crunching beneath our feet as we follow the dirt road that connects to the bigger gravel road leading into town.

“What is?” Surely he can’t mean the Seam itself, with its ramshackle homes and the inescapable sheen of coal dust.

“Getting to see what you do in the morning,” he says. “A day in the life of Katniss Everdeen.”

I snort. “This is not a typical day. Most mornings I shove a piece of bread in my mouth and run.”

Peeta laughs. “Me too. I don’t have to run quite as far, though…”

I don’t hear the rest of his thought, because as we turn the corner onto the gravel road we’re confronted with another traveler in the dim early morning light. Vick Hawthorne.

Vick’s eyes light up in recognition when he sees me, then instantly narrow a little when he sees who I’m with. “Hey, Katniss,” he says casually.

“Hey.” We stop in the middle of the road. I avoid looking at Peeta, though I can practically feel his questioning gaze burning through me.

There’s an awkward pause, during which I know I should introduce Peeta…but I stay silent. Maybe there’s a slight, slim chance that Vick actually _doesn’t_ know who Peeta is, and won’t run to tell Gale that he saw us together in the Seam at the crack of dawn.

“You heading to work?” Vick finally asks.

“Yes.” I eye him suspiciously: his shirt looks rumpled and slept-in, and his hair is even worse. He’s clearly heading home from an overnight stay. And since he’s coming from town, it was probably one with the girl whose parents accused him of theft back in the summer. “Late night?”

Vick has the grace to look embarrassed, but only a little. “Um, yeah. You could say that, yeah.”

I raise my eyebrows, but he just rolls his eyes. We’re only one year apart in age, but as Gale’s friend I’ve always felt a little protective of his younger siblings, the way Gale does for Prim.

“Well, we’ve gotta get going,” I say uncomfortably.

“Yeah. See you later.” Vick gives Peeta a very obvious once-over before sticking his hands in his pockets and continuing down the road towards home.

Once Vick is out of sight, Peeta says, “So that was Gale’s brother?”

Guilt gnaws at my stomach with every step towards town. Peeta probably thinks I was ashamed to be seen with him, which couldn’t be further from the truth. But Prim was right. I should have told Gale about this – about us – even if nothing official was happening when the opportunity arose. Now Vick will tell him, and he’ll assume that I was hiding a relationship with Peeta from him, and all the tentative steps we’ve taken towards regaining our friendship with be worthless, erased, _gone._

“Yeah, that’s Vick. He’s, I guess, a ladies’ man or something,” I babble nervously. “He has this thing with this girl in town – her parents claimed he stole some jewelry, and he wasn’t supposed to see her anymore, but I guess he’s doing it in secret –“

Peeta listens patiently as I tell him what little I know of the story, but when I finish he stops me with a gentle hand on my arm. “Katniss,” he says, “Does Gale not know about us?”

I bite my lip and look away towards the horizon, where the sun is finally beginning to peek out over the rolling mountains in the distance. “He…suspects,” I admit, immediately regretting my word choice.

“He suspects,” Peeta repeats. “So you never told him you were dating me?”

“Gale and I have barely been speaking,” I say. “It’s none of his business. I don’t have to tell him anything.” Even as I say it my stomach roils in protest; though the words are technically true, Gale doesn’t deserve to be written off like this. And neither does Peeta.

“No. You don’t _have_ to tell him anything,” he says. But we both know that I should.

Before I can form a response, Peeta turns and sets off for town at a brisk pace. “C’mon, we’re going to be late,” he says, and I sprint after him to catch up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG! so much to say!
> 
> 1\. thank you so much for your patience - it's been just over a month since my last update, which I never intended to happen. I will try my best to update more frequently!
> 
> 2\. part of the reason for my delay was the awesome Prompts in Panem week, which I wrote 2 fics for. first is "Lip Service", a little smutty moment set during the Victory Tour portion of Catching Fire. second is "Having Fun Yet?", a crossover with the hilarious show Party Down. you can check them out on my profile if you're so inclined!
> 
> 3\. I struggled a little with the jealousy that Katniss displays in this chapter, but I came down on the side of yes, this is in her character. I specifically thought of that moment from MJ when she wants to know about the other girls Gale kissed. She's in a more serious relationship with Peeta at this point than she ever was with Gale in MJ, and with someone deliberately provoking her about his ex-girlfriend, I think she'd react this way. Of course, if you disagree I'd still love to hear your thoughts because characterization is important to me :)
> 
> 4\. anyway, hope you enjoyed this chapter! feedback is always appreciated! love you all!
> 
> ETA: Sorry about the confusion with Vick, but in this story Vick & Rory's ages are swapped bc when I first started writing it I mistakenly thought Vick was the older one. Oops! :)


	31. thirty-one

Mr. Mellark is kneading a ball of dough when Peeta and I enter the kitchen through the back door, but it’s clear that he’s been waiting around for his son to show up. He jerks his chin towards the office in the back. “Let’s have a talk.”

Peeta doesn’t look at me as he follows his father in stony silence. The tension in the room is unbearable, and I slip out to the quiet, empty front of the store, ignoring the look Brody gives me from where he stands, stirring a bowl of cookie dough.

All in all, it’s a pretty miserable day. The weather is damp and dreary, eventually culminating in an outright thunderstorm around late morning, and the few customers who straggle inside are moody and impatient. Each one who enters the shop drags a trail of mud and rainwater in with them, and I have to pull out the mop from under the counter to clean up after them over and over again.

Peeta is nowhere to be found at lunchtime. I find Brody alone in the kitchen, picking half-heartedly at a sandwich. “Where’s Peeta?”

He grimaces a little. “Dad sent him out on a punishment errand.”

My eyes widen. “In the rain?”

Brody shrugs. “Better than what Mom would’ve made him do.”

“This is my fault,” I groan, collapsing onto the stool beside him. “I made Peeta stay at my house last night.”

Brody looks me over. “Unless you tied him down, I’m pretty sure you didn’t _make_ Peeta do anything. He knew what he was getting into.” He pats me on the shoulder. “Anyway, that’s not what they’re really upset about.”

Obviously he’s referring to what happened at dinner last night – which was _also_ my fault, if not directly. Brody sighs. “Katniss, seriously, don’t worry about it. It’ll blow over in a day or two. It always does.”

Mr. Mellark comes down from the second floor as Brody and I are finishing up our sandwiches, but only gives me a tense smile and a nod before he closes himself in the back office. I’d always thought of him as the kind parent, a calming counterpart to his wife’s sharp temper. Maybe he is. Maybe walking around in a thunderstorm is a better alternative to whatever his mother would have had in store. But I still can’t believe that Peeta is out there right now, in howling winds and lashing rain, sent by his own father.

He’s still not back by the time the shop closes at 6. Instead of leaving, I join Brody at the sink and start to dry the dishes that would normally be left in the drying rack. “You don’t have to do that,” Brody says, but the look I give him says otherwise.

Mr. Mellark seems surprised to find me still there when he wanders through the kitchen later. “Katniss. I thought you would’ve headed home now the rain’s let up a little.”

I refuse to meet his eyes, keeping mine studiously trained on the metal pot in my hands. “I’m waiting for Peeta.”

There is a long pause. “Well, he should be getting home soon,” he says, and disappears up the stairs.

It’s not until Brody’s fingers gently encircle my wrist that I realize I’ve been trembling. “Hey,” he says softly. “It’s okay.”

I shake my head, pressing my lips together.

“Katniss.” Brody squeezes my hand. “We can trust each other, right?”

I nod slowly, staring down at the towel clenched in my fist. I’m afraid if I look at him I’ll start to cry.

“Then trust me. Peeta is _fine_. Dad sent him with bread for the miners, and told him he had to come back with the sack, which is code for sitting around all day waiting for them to finish. I promise.”

I chance a glance at Brody, and he smiles. “We had an argument,” I whisper.

“About what?”

I wipe at my eyes, where a lone tear has dripped slowly down my cheek. “I never told Gale that me and Peeta were together.”

“Katniss.” Brody sighs. “Peeta doesn’t care.”

“He does,” I insist. “He barely even spoke to me once he realized. I hurt him.”

“Maybe you did. He’ll get over it.” Brody shakes his head slowly. “I really can’t believe you don’t see it.”

I sniff loudly. “See what?”

“The effect you have on him.” Wiping his damp hands on his pants, Brody backs away from the sink, tugging his apron over his head. “He’s had a crush on you forever. He’s not going to give that up so easy.”

I frown. _Forever?_ That doesn’t make any sense. I don’t think Peeta and I even exchanged more than a few sentences with one another before I started working at the bakery, and that was only months ago.

“Thanks for your help down here,” Brody continues, hanging his apron on the hook by the door. “Seriously, stop worrying. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He leaves me alone in the kitchen, flicking off the light by the staircase as he goes.

After a minute or two, the silence of the empty kitchen is overwhelming. I’ve been here alone on occasion, but never when the ovens weren’t humming with heat, and never after the Mellarks had officially closed up shop for the night. Only one of the overhead lights remains turned on, the one at the front of the long room. The effect is creepy, long shadows falling in odd shapes on the tiled floor.

For a while I zone out, staring at the blank television that sits unused in the back of the room. I could watch that to pass the time, and at least attempt to get out of my own head. But the thought of watching some stupid Capitol show right now only tightens the knot in my stomach.

Hopping up onto one of the tables, I sit cross-legged and mull over what Brody said. Peeta’s had a crush on me…for a long time? Forever? Brody’s not exactly immune to hyperbole. _Forever_ in Brody terms could mean three weeks.

It doesn’t matter, I reason. What matters is how we feel now.

The creak of the door opening startles me out of my thoughts. All I have to hear are the two heavy footfalls on the top step and I know who it is. _Peeta_. I jump to my feet and throw my arms around him before he can even shut the door.

He makes a sound like I’ve knocked the breath out of him, then pats clumsily at my back. “Katniss?” His hand finds my braid and I can feel him relax as his fingers wind into my hair. “I’m getting you all wet.”

“Don’t care,” I mumble against his shirt, thinking back to this morning when he’d said the same thing as he tried to kiss me. We’re past that point, I realize. I don’t know how we got here so quickly, but we are.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt out. “I should have told Gale. I should have –“

“Shh,” he interrupts me, pulling back slightly. “I don’t care. It’s fine.” He’s staring at me with wide eyes. “Why are you still here? It’s nearly dinnertime.”

“I was waiting for you,” I say. The next part is hard to admit, but I force it out anyway. “I was…scared.”

Peeta smiles, though he looks confused. “Scared?”

“It’s been pouring all day,” I say, defensive. “You could’ve been struck by lightning.”

“Or drowned,” he points out. “I don’t know how to swim.”

I pull away with a scowl, annoyed that he seems to find this all amusing. “You’re getting me all damp.” He just laughs.

With a little distance, I finally get a good look at him – and he’s _soaked_. His hair is dark and plastered against his forehead, tiny droplets of rain littered across his forehead and cheeks. His clothes are waterlogged, as if he really did try to go swimming. He shrugs off his jacket, letting it fall to the floor with a wet thud. “I’m freezing,” he admits.

Without a second thought, I stride across the room to the nearest oven and pull it open, staring into it uselessly. “How do you light this thing?”

Peeta catches on to my thinking and grabs a utility lighter from one of the shelves by the door. “With this,” he says. He pushes a trigger with his index finger, and a small flame appears from the other end.

I watch as he crouches beside me and lights the oven, water still dripping from his clothes onto the floor. “You might as well take those off,” I say without thinking.

My face turns beet red as Peeta looks at me in surprise. “I mean…they’re just going to keep you wet and cold,” I mumble. “You’ll warm up quicker without them.”

Peeta shrugs. “Okay.” Without hesitation he stands upright and unbuttons his shirt, peeling it off to reveal an equally soaked undershirt beneath it. It’s so wet it’s practically translucent, and I can see his nipples poking out, hard from the cold. I look away as he pulls that shirt off, too.

“Oh, come on,” he says, voice teasing. “You can’t ask me to get naked and then not even look.”

I glare at him, but I allow myself to finally take in the sight of him. He doesn’t have visible abs like Finnick Odair, whose torso is practically seared into my brain after being paraded around half-naked on the television every time the Hunger Games roll around. But he looks solid and healthy – strong – and the muscles in his arms are the clear payoff from hauling sacks of flour for years.

I like the way he looks. The realization sends warmth spreading through me, despite the slight chill that my own clothes now leave against my skin.

Peeta’s cheeks turn pink under my gaze, but he puts his hands on his hips and raises one eyebrow. “You think the pants should come off, too?”

I try my best to look disinterested. “Whatever’s comfortable,” I say, hoping he doesn’t notice the catch in my voice.

His eyes never leave me as he unfastens the button at the front of his pants and slips them over his hips, but he pulls them down slowly, like he’s still giving me a chance to tell him to stop. I say nothing. He folds his arms across his chest as he kicks the pants off into a wet pile where his shirt already lays.

I try hard not to let my eyes wander, but it’s impossible not to look at his underwear. It’s dark blue, and though it looks wet, too, I’m not going to encourage him to get _that_ naked. Mostly I’m fixated on the definite bulge between his legs. I don’t think he has an actual erection, but it’s…noticeable.

Thank goodness his underwear isn’t white, too.

After a long stretch of silence, Peeta clears his throat. My eyes jump up to meet his gaze, which is oddly intense. “Well, you’ve got me,” he says. “What are you going to do with me?”

I look back at the oven, which has finally grown hot enough that I can just barely feel its heat starting to pulse out at me. “Warm you up,” I say. I grab his hand and pull him over beside me, then tug him down as I settle onto the floor.

“I need a little more to get warm,” he says, and wraps one arm all the way around my waist, pulling me to sit between his legs. I rest a hand on his chest to balance myself and then jerk back, startled by how cold and clammy his skin feels.

“You _are_ freezing,” I say, frowning. He maneuvers me gently so that my back is flush against his chest and circles his arms loosely around me, his hands settling in my lap.

“S’okay. You’re a very good heater,” he says, nuzzling at the curve of my shoulder.

“You’re going to get sick,” I protest weakly, but the soft brush of his lips against my neck feels too good to put up much of a fuss.

We sit by the oven for a while in comfortable silence, my hands running lightly up and down his forearms in an effort to warm them up. It’s not really sexual, sitting together like this, but I’m still very much aware that it’s the most touching we’ve done since our date on the roof – and there’s a lot more bare skin this time around.

“I really am sorry that I didn’t tell Gale yet,” I say quietly, brushing my fingers over the soft blond hair on his arm.

Peeta sighs. “No, I’m sorry,” he says. “I acted like a baby. You’ll tell him when you’re ready.”

“I am ready,” I say. Nestled in Peeta’s arms like this, I feel so comfortable and relaxed that all my worries from this morning seem petty and ridiculous in retrospect. Of course I can tell Gale that Peeta is my boyfriend now. If anything, it will only help Gale move on faster. Right?

It occurs to me that it might already be too late – and not just because Vick has a big mouth. “You didn’t, um. See him today?”

I feel Peeta’s nose brush against my hair as he shakes his head. “Nope. I mostly hung out in this little shack with the foreman all day.”

“Oh.” I’m surprised. “I guess…I had these horrible visions of you walking around in the rain all day.” It sounds stupid now that I say it out loud. There’s no way Mr. Mellark is _that_ cruel. “How’d you get so wet?”

“A fifteen minute walk with no umbrella’ll do it,” he snorts. “Don’t worry, I wasn’t wet and shivering all day. Just really bored. Missing you,” he adds, squeezing me between his legs for a second. “You worry too much.”

I pull my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around them protectively. I’m so _sick_ of people telling me not to worry. I know that I worry a lot. But I also know what happens when you don’t. When you go to school in the morning thinking your dad will come home for dinner, like normal. When you assume your mom will snap out of it, sooner or later. Those things don’t always happen. And when they don’t, the worst thing you can possibly be is caught off-guard.

“I know what it’s like to be wet and shivering, okay?” I say quietly. “It’s… bad.”

I can feel the exact moment the realization hits him; his head drops down against my shoulder, his muscles tensing around me. “Katniss,” he sighs. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t even think.”

“It’s okay.” I twist my neck around to give him a small smile.

“I should have realized…” He trails off, and the way he’s gazing at me is so sad I have to look away. “Do you want to talk about it?”

My first instinct is to say _no._ But Peeta and I have _never_ really talked about that day in the rain. Maybe we need to, if I’m ever going to stop feeling that I still owe him for it.

I suck in a deep breath. “Why did you do it?”

“Do what?” He tucks a loose piece of hair behind my ear, and leans forward a bit over my shoulder to see my face. “Give you the bread?”

“Yes.”

“Because you were hungry.” He says it as if it’s obvious; as if it’s what anyone would have done. But it wasn’t. I never would have been there in the first place – so close to tipping over the wrong side of the edge – if that small display of kindness was what “anyone” would do.

“And because I liked you,” he adds, his voice dropping to a whisper.

I twist around to meet his eyes, incredulous. “But you never even talked to me.”

“I was scared,” he says. “Haven’t you ever liked someone so much you were scared to talk to them?”

Truthfully…no. When I don’t answer, he nudges me in the side. “ _You’re supposed to say me,_ ” he stage-whispers, drawing out a laugh from me.

I say the only thing that comes to mind. “I like you.” Peeta’s smile is so wide it makes my own cheeks hurt just looking at him.

I’m not sure who moves in first, but suddenly his lips are on mine.

It’s uncomfortable twisting my neck around to reach him, so I wrap my arms around his neck and shift until I’m straddling his lap. My lips part open and his tongue enters my mouth, brushing against my own. I suck on it lightly, like he’s done to me before, and a shivery kind of pleasure runs through me when he groans in response.

Peeta’s hands are big and warm when he slides them up under my shirt, spreading his fingers over my back and pulling me closer. A hunger for more pulses through me; I want to feel them _everywhere_. After a few more long, heated kisses, I lean back and hold my breath as I pull my shirt up over my head.

It’s so hot next to the oven by now that the relief I feel peeling off a layer of clothes is almost enough to outweigh my nerves. Peeta grunts softly in appreciation, staring half-focused at my chest. I feel one hand slide up to rest at the clasp of my bra, but he hesitates. “You okay?” he asks softly.

I nod, but I surge forward to kiss him again as I feel his fingers unclasp the hooks, the band falling loose around my ribcage. A moment later one hand slips around to my front and he cups my breast, breathing heavily against my mouth.

The warmth and pressure of his hand feel _so_ good, better than I could have imagined. I bury my face in his neck, pressing a soft kiss there. “Let me see you,” he murmurs.

Slowly I pull back, sitting just far back enough on his lap that his gaze can settle upon my bare breasts. Both of his hands move up to glide over them gently, reverently. My nipples are stiff and far more sensitive than I’d expected, and when he pinches one lightly between his fingers, a little tendril of lust curls through me.

“You are so gorgeous,” he says flatly, and dips his head to press wet kisses down my neck. Energy buzzes through my veins as he continues to palm my breasts, but the tension drains out of me, letting the pleasure rush in to take its place.

Peeta’s lips trail down my neck, over my collarbone, and finally down to the valley between my breasts, where he pauses for a moment. He breathes in deeply. Then he angles his head and runs his tongue over one peaked nipple, before taking the tip of my breast into his mouth, his breath burning hot against my skin.

My eyes squeeze shut as I bury my fingers in his hair, trying to hold back the noises that threaten to escape me. As he sucks and licks at my skin, Peeta’s bulge becomes bigger – harder – pressing up against me between my legs. I adjust myself in his lap slightly, trying to find a position where it feels less… _urgent_ , but I end up squirming against him in the process. He groans, and I can feel it through my whole body.

His hips start to move beneath me in earnest now; nothing too aggressive, just a light thrusting motion as he seeks relief between my thighs. I roll back against him once, experimentally, earning another moan. And I can’t deny that it feels incredible to me, too, his hardness pressing up against the spot where I’ve never been brave enough to chase that feeling all the way to its end.

Eventually Peeta manages to drag his attention from my chest, and lifts his head to kiss me, sweeping his tongue into my mouth. “We have to stop,” he says, sounding breathless, even as his fingers continue to skim over my breasts.

“Why?”

He clears his throat, shifting beneath me so I’m no longer sitting directly on top of his obvious erection. “Because I don’t want the first time I see you completely naked to be on a kitchen floor.”

My face floods with heat, but as my senses return to me I realize he’s right. The Mellarks keep their kitchen pretty clean, but it’s not a place I want to get naked, either. Nonetheless, it’s kind of a presumptuous statement. “Who says I was going to get naked?” Even as the words leave my lips, I know they don’t sound very convincing.

Peeta doesn’t seem to think so, either. “You were definitely going to get naked,” he says with a lazy grin, tracing a circle around my nipple with one finger. “You’re halfway there. You’re the one who got _me_ naked, Katniss Everdeen.”

“You’ve still got on underwear,” I mutter, ducking my head.

Peeta laughs, and pulls me into a tight hug against his chest. “Seriously though,” he whispers. “My dad could walk down here any second.”

“Ugh.” I pull away, reaching for my bra. I angle my body away as I clasp it back on, pulling the straps over my shoulders. “I didn’t even think about that.”

“I know you didn’t,” he says teasingly. And the thing is, even though I’m the kind of person who _always_ worries about things like that…this time, I absolutely didn’t.

I might really be in trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! I got a burst of inspiration to write this (very fun) chapter and didn't see a point in making you wait for it, especially since it took me so long to post the last one. Let me know what you think. I'm so happy to be FINALLY earning this M rating. ;)
> 
> Thank you SO much for your love & reviews!!!


	32. thirty-two

The closer I get to home, the more the last hour I spent with Peeta feels like a dream.

A strange, jittery energy pulses through me as I hurry down the muddy path towards the Seam. _What am I doing?_ I let Peeta touch me, and kiss me, in places no one but my immediate family has ever even _seen_.

I’m not sure who that Katniss was – the one who pulled off her own shirt, who pressed her hips against Peeta’s, who didn’t even think about stopping. I don’t mind her. I might even like her. But I have no idea where she was hiding all this time.

Prim and Mother are in the middle of dinner by the time I arrive home. “Look who decided to join us,” Mother says.

“Sorry,” I say, hanging my coat by the door. My portion of tonight’s stew sits simmering on the stove, and I spoon it into a bowl they’ve left out on the counter. I start shoveling spoonfuls into my mouth before I’m even seated at the table, trying to stay focused on the food. Somehow I just know that if I stop and let my face settle, they’ll _know_ that a boy touched my breasts tonight.

“There was a mess in the kitchen,” I say between mouthfuls. “I had to help clean up.”

“Must have been some mess,” Mother says.

Prim just stares at me, her eyes wide and lips pressed together, like she’s holding back a laugh. “What?” I snap.

Her mouth twists for a moment, then she blurts out, “Your _shirt_ is inside-out.”

“What?” I look down, and realize with a sinking feeling that she’s right. When Peeta said that his father might walk in on us together, I was in such a rush to cover up that I didn’t realize the seam of my shirt was on the outside.

Mother’s expression remains neutral, but Prim covers her face with her hands, laughing.

“It’s not – I had to take it off and wash it. I got…milk on it,” I stammer, searching for a good excuse.

“Sure you did,” Prim giggles.

“Shut up, Prim.” I glare at her.

“You shut up,” she retorts with a wide grin.

“Girls,” Mother says. But judging by the look on her face, she doesn’t buy my story.

Prim snickers again, but she doesn’t say anything else as we finish our meals.

As soon as I’m done with my stew, I bolt for my bedroom, but Mother’s voice stops me. “Katniss, I want to speak to you,” she says. Her voice is firm, but I don’t miss the slight, nervous waver in her words.

I follow her obediently into her bedroom, avoiding Prim’s questioning gaze. Mother shuts the door behind us, and I’m instantly on guard. She sits on the edge of her bed and pats the space beside her. “Why don’t you sit down.”

I comply, looking at anything and everything but her face. “Katniss,” she says, sounding as though she’s steeling herself for something. She pauses. “Are you and Peeta having sex?”

“ _No_ ,” I say.

She’s quiet for a moment, as if she expects me to elaborate, but I say nothing, staring down at my feet.

“I’m sure you wouldn’t tell me even if you were,” she sighs.

“Probably not,” I agree.

“Well, I’m just going to say this once, then.” She swallows. “Be careful. Use condoms, and if the two of you can’t afford them, then make him pull out.”

My mouth falls open slightly, heat flooding my cheeks. True, I hadn’t exactly been thinking about condoms earlier tonight. But it wouldn’t even have gone that far.

“I can teach you how to track your cycle so that you know when you’re fertile,” she continues. “And if worse comes to worse, there are herbs I can give you to end a pregnancy. But I don’t want it to ever come to that.”

All I want is to plug my ears and hum loudly to drown her out. My mother has _never_ been this upfront with me. It’s mortifying. “Mother –“

“I’m not finished,” she says with an uncharacteristic sharpness. “Don’t let him pressure you. You can say no to anything you don’t feel comfortable with.” Her voice softens. “Peeta seems like a nice boy. If he really cares about you, it won’t be an issue.”

A long, uncomfortable moment passes, until I finally speak. “Okay.”

Mother clasps her hands tightly in her lap. “Do you have any questions for me?”

I shake my head. “Okay,” she says, sounding a touch relieved. “You’re…excused.”

“Okay.” I stand up to leave, but pause by the door. “You don’t have to worry about me and Peeta,” I say. “He’s…good.”

Mother just nods again, seeming almost embarrassed by her speech. I close her bedroom door behind me.

Prim looks up from her textbook, spread open on her lap on the couch. “What was that about?”

I shrug, still feeling unbearably awkward. At this moment, all I want is to bury myself under the covers and pretend that entire conversation never happened. “Nothing.”

“Was it about sex?”

“ _Prim._ ” The word sounds so inappropriate coming out of my fourteen-year-old sister’s mouth.

She smiles knowingly. “It was.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m not…doing that.” Just shirtless kissing, with someone who has hinted – more than once – that he _wants_ to have sex with me.

“I kind of wish I heard it,” she says, tilting her head. “It’s not like she’ll ever have to give me a sex talk.”

It takes me a moment to grasp what she’s implying, but I snort. “No, I guess not.”

* * *

 

Peeta’s rainy day at the mines seems to satisfy his parents’ need for punishment, so as Brody promised, everything blows over in a day or two. His father makes a point of hanging around the kitchen more frequently, though, making it hard for us to have more than a few minutes alone.

And it’s frustrating. The night of my mother’s “talk,” I’d retreated to my bedroom early, and lay beneath the sheets replaying those stolen moments with Peeta through my head. The way his fingertips had skimmed over my breasts, followed by the heat of his mouth. The feel of his hips pressing up against me. Before long I’d grown flushed and uncomfortable, embarrassed by my body’s reaction to mere _thoughts_ , even though there was no one around to witness it.

Now there’s a heat I never expected in Peeta’s gaze every time he looks at me. I don’t allow myself to meet his eyes for very long, at least not when his father and Brody are around. But I can tell from Brody’s frequent smirks that I’m not the only one who feels the crackling tension in the air.

To distract myself, I plan out how I’m going to talk to Gale about my relationship with Peeta the next time I see him. There’s no way Vick hasn’t spilled the beans by now, so he’ll have had a few days to mull over the information. I can’t decide if that’s a good or a bad thing. One the one hand, maybe he’ll come to peace with the idea of me dating someone new. On the other, that someone is Peeta – who he’s never seemed to like, and already admitted he harbors jealousy toward.

I don’t mention any of this to Peeta – revealing Gale’s vulnerability to him would be a kind of betrayal. We spend most of our brief moments alone together kissing, anyway.

“You’re killing me,” Peeta groans one afternoon, burying his face in my neck. We’re in the alley behind the bakery, his solid form pressing me back against the brick wall, just out of view of anyone passing by on the street.

I snort. “What?”

“You’re too beautiful,” he says dramatically. I roll my eyes. “Hey. Guess what.”

“What?”

“It’s my birthday next week,” he says. “My nineteenth.”

I smile. Turning nineteen is a big deal in District 12 – and all over Panem, really – because it means you’ve officially aged out of the Reaping. At this point in our lives, it’s obvious that we’re safe – the Hunger Games ended months ago – but something about actually turning nineteen makes it feel more real, more solid.

Or so I’ve been told. I’m still just eighteen, myself.

“How are you going to celebrate?” I ask.

“With you, I hope,” he says, smiling down at me.

“Are you having a party? Like Brody?”

Peeta screws up his face. “I don’t know.”

I realize that with all the time he spends working now, Peeta probably doesn’t see much of his school friends anymore. And I was never really clear on whether his friends were truly angry with him for ending his relationship with Violet, or if it was just Brody teasing him.

Though I feel like we’re closer than ever, there are still significant parts of Peeta’s life that I know very little about. He was friendly and popular in school; I remember seeing him with a group of friends, watching the Games in the square during the summer. But I’ve never seen a single one of them – other than Violet – come into the bakery to visit him, and he’s never mentioned any of them to me in more than a passing way. Or invited me to meet them.

“You should do what you want,” I say. To be perfectly honest, I don’t _really_ want Peeta to have a big party. I already had my share of odd looks and brief, uncomfortable conversations with Merchants during his brother’s wedding.

He shrugs, and reaches up to push a piece of hair back from my face. “I wanted you to come to dinner,” he says, his eyes raking over my face. “But I guess the toasting kind of killed that.”

“Beef stew,” I say, recalling the game we’d played at the end of summer, up on the school rooftop. His favorite food, that his father only makes for his birthday.

“You remembered,” he says, sounding surprised.

I nod, and he leans in to kiss me, softer and sweeter than the hurried, sloppy kisses we exchanged earlier when we snuck out into the alley together. When we break apart he rests his face in the crook of my shoulder, squeezing my hips gently between both of his hands. “Katniss.”

I toy with the bottom button of his coat, feeling oddly nervous. “Yeah.”

He’s quiet for long, heavy seconds. Then he tilts his head and presses a gentle kiss to my neck. “You smell good.” I can hear the smile in his voice.

I laugh and push him away. “You’re so weird,” I say, trying to ignore the strange flutter in my stomach.

Peeta just smiles at me.

“I should go,” I say, tugging my jacket tighter around my middle.

“Oh really?”

“Yes.” I hesitate, then admit, “I’m planning to go see Gale tonight.”

His smile fades. “You are?”

I nod.

“You don’t have to,” he says, scratching at the back of his neck. “I feel like maybe I guilted you into it.”

“No.” I frown. “This…isn’t even really about you. I mean, it is, but I owe it to Gale. To be honest with him.”

Peeta nods. “Sure. Well, good luck.” He wraps his arms around me for one last hug, and leans down to press a long, lingering kiss against my lips.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I tell him as I walk backwards toward the street, taking slow, halting steps.

“See you.” He pauses by the bakery’s back door, waving, waiting until I’ve turned the corner before he steps back inside.

* * *

 

The sky has been dark for several hours by the time I make the quick walk to Gale’s house. It was cool today even when the midday sun was shining, but now it’s downright chilly, and I hunch my shoulders beneath the familiar weight of my father’s hunting jacket as I stride through the quiet Seam streets.

Hazelle seems confused to see me when she opens the front door. “Katniss. Hello.” I can’t help but remember how warm she’d been the last time she greeted me, when I was still Gale’s girlfriend. Before I became the girl who broke his heart. Now she seems stiff and unsure how to deal with me.

“Hi,” I say, shivering a little on the front step. “How are you doing?”

“We’re fine,” she says. Normally at this point she’d have ushered me inside, a warm arm around my shoulders. Instead she simply stands before me, waiting for me to explain my presence. I shift on my feet, a little stung by her coolness.

“I’m glad,” I say. “Is Gale around?”

“Gale, are you around?” Hazelle calls over her shoulder.

I hear the faint creak of a door opening from somewhere within the house. “What?” Gale’s voice sounds annoyed.

“Katniss is here to see you,” she says. Gale comes into view behind her a few moments later, scratching at his chin, squinting in the light. _Probably napping_ , I think.

“Hey,” he says, nodding at me. I’m relieved that he doesn’t appear to share any of his mother’s hostility. “What’s going on?”

I shrug, tugging at the end of my braid. “Not a lot. How are you?”

Gale tilts his head a little from side to side. “Some good, some bad. You know.” He touches his mother’s elbow and raises his eyebrows when she looks up at him. Some unspoken agreement passes between them, and Hazelle nods at me before stepping away from the door.

“Good to see you, Katniss,” she says.

“You too.” Gale seems amused by something, but after Hazelle is out of sight he steps out onto the front step with me and shuts the door.

“So what’s up?” he says, hugging his arms around his middle.

“Aren’t you cold?” I say, eyeing his thin, cotton shirt.

Gale shrugs. “Good for the blood,” he says, and I smile a little, rolling my eyes. That was always his answer for anything uncomfortable we encountered together in the woods: an icy wind, rain, even an encounter with a bear. _It’s good for the blood, Catnip,_ he’d say. _Keeps us sharp._

Neither of us speaks for a while, but Gale watches me patiently, a slight frown creasing his forehead. Finally he says, “Sorry, I assumed you wanted to talk about something in private, but we could go back inside…?”

“No,” I say with a shake of my head. “You’re right. I wanted to, um, tell you something. It’s that…I have a boyfriend. It’s Peeta. Peeta Mellark.”

Gale is still for a moment, then says, “Is there another Peeta in District 12?”

I stare back at him in stony silence. Does he _have_ to try and make this harder on me? “You know what I meant.”

His face softens, and he has the grace to look chastened. “I’m kidding. Sorry, I’m kidding.” Gale sighs. “I know, Katniss.”

I look down, feeling ashamed myself. “Vick told you.” It’s not a question.

“Yeah. Although I definitely didn’t believe him when he said you looked ‘freshly fucked.’”

My stomach turns in disgust. “Peeta just slept on my couch that night.”

Gale holds up his hands, as if to stop me. “You don’t have to explain. It’s not my business. Anyway, I know my brother’s full of shit.”

“Still. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” My eyes find his in the dark, and I hope he can read my sincerity in them. “You deserve to hear it from me.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He rubs his hands briskly over his biceps, a concession to the cold.

I search his eyes, looking for some sign that he’s still masking his hurt, but he seems genuine. “Do you want to go hunting on Sunday?” I ask, before I can overthink the invitation.

Gale thinks it over for a moment. “I think so,” he says. “Yeah. Okay.”

My face breaks out in a smile. I almost embrace him in a hug, but think better of it, and shove my hands deep into the pockets of my jacket. “Okay. See you then.”

I’ve almost reached the main dirt road when Gale’s voice stops me. “Hey Katniss,” he says. I turn and look at him. “I was right.” He smirks. “He _does_ like you.”

Any other time his teasing would annoy me – but I’m just so happy he’s teasing me at all that I don’t care. I wave a hand at him. “See you Sunday, Gale.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL. First of all, I really suck for taking over a month to update, huh? I'm sorry about that - I never intended to let it go that long! October just turned out to be a very busy month for me, and my attention was diverted to some other fics I'm working on as well. 
> 
> Anyhoo, I hope you enjoy this chapter, and would love to know what you think. I can't promise the next update will come quick, but I'm planning to include more fun sexy times to make up for it. ;)


	33. thirty-three

I have no idea what to get Peeta for his birthday.

I flat-out ask him what he wants, one afternoon as I’m watching him decorate a batch of sugar cookies. “You don’t need to get me anything,” he says. His tongue pokes out slightly from the side of his mouth as he concentrates on shaping the petals of a flower.

“Peeta,” I sigh.

“What?”

“You must want something.” I kick gently at his leg from where I’m sitting on the tabletop.

“Not really,” he says, glancing at me for a moment before returning his attention to the cookies. “I’m kind of just glad to be alive.”

If it were Prim wheedling me about birthday gifts, I’d say the same thing. Just making it to nineteen – knowing I have a whole life ahead of me – is probably the best gift I’ll ever receive. But Peeta…he deserves more than that.

“I still think I should get you something,” I mutter.

Peeta sets down his frosting and places his hands gently on my thighs, stilling my jittery legs. “Your presence is enough.” He leans in and kisses me.

Brody, however, would appear to agree with me. He corners me as I’m closing up the register the next evening, hopping up to sit on the counter. “So what’d you get him?”

“Nothing yet,” I say, pushing the cash drawer shut with a little more aggression than usual. “He won’t tell me what he wants.”

“He doesn’t want anything.” Brody shrugs. “You just have to make something up.”

“What are you getting him, then?” I ask, desperate for an idea.

“I’m getting the hell out of our room for a night,” he says. A long beat passes before I realize he’s not joking.

I must look shocked, because Brody raises his eyebrows, and crosses his arms over his chest. “I thought that was what you both wanted,” he says in a low voice.

My mouth feels as though it’s been stuffed with the cotton balls my mother uses to clean shallow wounds. “I…um.”

Is it? Is that what all of our heated looks, lingering kisses and wandering hands have been building up to? I think back to last week in the bakery, Peeta’s skin warm and damp under my hands. His mouth on the tips of my breasts, and his hands skimming around my waist. I wanted to touch more of him; I wanted him to touch more of me. This is a chance to do that.

Maybe our _only_ chance, given our living situations.

Brody lays a hand on my shoulder. “Look, Katniss. You two can sit up there and play checkers all night and Peeta will be the happiest guy in the world.” He looks apologetic. “I just thought the two of you could use some privacy.”

“That’s thoughtful,” I say. But no matter what Brody says, his intent was never for Peeta and I to play board games on their bedroom floor. “Does, um. Does Peeta know?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “I was going to tell him tomorrow, so he had, y’know…time to make it a little more romantic.” He watches me carefully. “Should I not tell him that?”

My heart pounds in my chest as I consider his offer. Brody is right that Peeta would never push me into anything I don’t want to do. If nothing else, we’ll have some time to just be alone together, somewhere comfortable, somewhere we don’t have to worry about anyone interrupting us. And if we _want_ to take it any further than that…well. We can.

“No. Tell him,” I say. Another thought occurs to me. “Aren’t your parents going to be around?”

Brody smirks. “Well, yeah. But they go to bed at eight and sleep like the dead.” He winks. “Just don’t…celebrate too loud when you beat Peeta at checkers.”

* * *

 

Brody’s gift gives me plenty to think about – too much, maybe – but it doesn’t solve my own gift problem, so I enlist Prim’s help, too.

“I barely know Peeta,” she warns me.

“I know, but you’re so good at this,” I say, thinking of the sweet gifts she’s given our mother and me over the years. “And you’re getting to know him.”

Over the past few weeks she’s started stopping by the bakery on her way home from school, even on the days when I’m not there. Even if Peeta’s busy in the kitchen, he’ll spare a few minutes to come out and say hello to Prim, usually offering her a cookie on the sly.

“She’s fourteen. You don’t have to slip her treats, Peeta,” I’d told him, but he’d shrugged it off.

“I never got to have a little sister to spoil.”

I hadn’t argued the point any further; after the last six months she’s had, Prim of all people deserves to be a little spoiled. And I can’t deny that seeing his kindness towards my sister sends a rush of warmth through me every time.

“What does Peeta like? Besides you,” Prim clarifies after I’ve been silent a while. I shoot her a glare.

“He likes bears,” I say helplessly. Prim laughs.

“I don’t think a bear will fit in the bakery. What does he like to do?”

He likes to decorate cakes, but that’s his job, and he already has everything he needs to do it. “Oh,” I say. “He likes to draw.”

“He likes to draw.” Prim’s mouth purses as she thinks. “You should get him berries from the woods to make into paint.”

It’s a good idea, but implausible, given that it’s already November. “I can’t. There aren’t many berries left.”

“That’s true.” Prim sighs. “Is there anything he really likes to eat?”

I think of the game we’d played up on the roof of the school, our first date. It feels like forever ago. “This stew that his dad makes him. And the apple tarts with cheese they make in the bakery.”

Prim smiles.

* * *

 

The morning of Peeta’s birthday, I wake up even earlier than usual, unable to sustain a restless sleep any longer.

I spend a long time in the bath, combing my fingers through my hair to untangle the knots that I’d normally ignore. The water quickly grows lukewarm, then cold, and I pull myself out abruptly, wrapping a threadbare towel around my body as I stand shivering before the mirror.

My looks have never been something I devote much thought to. I’m certainly not ugly, but I’m no great beauty, either. I let my eyes rake over my reflection: my cheeks, my lips, my breasts. They’re all fine; I suppose I like them, even. But Peeta must see something entirely different than I do when he looks at me – there’s no other explanation for the way he stares at me across a room, for the way his pupils had dilated with lust when I let him see my bare breasts.

I dress in a simple sweater and jeans, my typical work clothing. Rummaging through the junk drawer in the kitchen, I dig up a scrap of paper and pen and leave a note for my mother and Prim: _Slumber party at Madge Undersee’s tonight, don’t wait up._ It’s obviously a lie – I’ve never been to a slumber party in my life, let alone at the mayor’s house, and most girls outgrow them well before they outgrow the Reaping – but I can’t think of another excuse for not coming home tonight. Other than the truth, that is.

I feel a little silly as I set the note on the kitchen table. Mother’s lecture last week made it clear that she suspects Peeta and I are doing more than holding hands. But even if she outright disapproved, I haven’t followed my mother’s orders in years. The note is little more than a courtesy.  

Before I leave, I retrieve a small bundle from the backyard, where I’d left it to stay cool overnight. On my way out the front door I grab a sack that I’d left sitting beside my boots the night before.

No one is in the kitchen at the bakery when I arrive, but the door is unlocked, so I let myself in. The ovens have already been lit, their fires slowly warming the room. I turn on the lights and, after a moment’s hesitation, start to gather the ingredients I need for whole wheat bread. The Mellarks make several loaves every morning, and after months of watching Peeta and Brody mix the dough, I finally feel like I know how to get the bread started myself.

Eventually Peeta’s footsteps on the stairs announce his arrival, and I wipe the flour off my hands just as he appears through the doorway. “Hey,” he says, sounding surprised. “You’re early.”

I grab the sack I’d brought with me from where it hangs by my coat, and hand it to him. “Happy birthday.”

“You didn’t have to get me anything,” he sighs. With a smile, he opens the sack, peering inside. “Apples,” he says happily. “Thank you.”

He seems genuinely pleased by the offering, but then I hand him a small bundle wrapped in cheesecloth, tied off with a piece of orange yarn I snuck from my mother’s knitting. “And this.”

Peeta unwraps the second gift curiously, revealing a lump of fresh goat cheese – about a half of a pound, Prim had assured me. Enough for a half-dozen of the apple tarts he likes so much, and so rarely gets to eat. “Prim showed me how to make it from her goat’s milk. I thought you could make the tarts you like, so you can eat them fresh. It’s only for you,” I say. “No sharing.”

His smile stretches from ear to ear. “You have to eat some,” he says. “They don’t taste as good alone.”

I start to protest, but he stops me with a kiss. “Thank you,” he says, his voice low, his nose bumping against mine. “This is amazing.”

He kisses me again, deeper this time, and I melt against him, so relieved that he liked the gift. Of course, he’s nice enough that he’d probably claim to love any gift I gave him, but I don’t dwell on it, too wrapped up in the soft pressure of his lips.

The sound of more footsteps on the stairs finally breaks us apart, and by the time Brody and Mr. Mellark enter the kitchen, the only evidence that we were kissing is the light flush on both of our cheeks. “Look what Katniss gave me,” Peeta says, holding out the cheese for them to see.

The cheese isn’t much to look at, just a small, off-white lump, but they both seem impressed. “Yum,” Brody says.

“And apples,” Peeta adds. “From the woods?” I nod; I’d gathered them on Sunday when I went hunting with Gale, though I didn’t tell him what they were for.

“Don’t let your mother see all that,” Mr. Mellark says pointedly. “She’ll insist we use it for something to sell.”

Peeta rolls his eyes, but he places the cheese out of sight behind a sack of flour. “So, I have something to ask you.”

I raise an eyebrow, but his father and brother are standing around, so it can’t be anything too personal. “Oh?”

“My friend Asher invited us over for dinner tonight.”

Asher Finch. I remember him from school – sandy brown hair, tall, slender. Not someone I paid much attention to, or even ever talked to. He may have been on the wrestling team with Peeta, but I can’t imagine he’d fare very well against any of the Mellark brothers – too skinny. “That’s nice of him,” I say.

“Yeah. It’ll be you and me and him and his wife, Catrin.”

“His wife?” I repeat.

Peeta gives me an odd look. “Yes, they’re married.” There’s an awkward pause, then he asks, “Do you want to go?”

“Sure.” I don’t know what else I could possibly say, although sharing dinner with Peeta’s school friends has never been at the top of my list of evening activities. I rack my brain for a girl named Catrin, but come up with nothing.

From behind me, Peeta’s father softly clears his throat. “Peeta, I thought…ah, I thought I’d make that stew you like tonight.”

Peeta’s gaze shifts towards his father, his expression unreadable. “I know. I’m sorry. But I think it would be rude to say no.”

After an uncomfortable pause, his father nods. “Alright,” he says. “We’ll do it tomorrow night, then.”

Peeta nods once. “Thanks.” He looks back to me. “My shift’s a little longer than yours today. Do you mind waiting around a bit before we head over there?”

I give him a small smile and start to answer, but Mr. Mellark interrupts. “Peeta. Why don’t you help Katniss out today.”

Peeta seems startled. “Really?”

His father nods. “We’ve got it handled back here. Just don’t distract her too much.”

Peeta doesn’t ask twice. “Alright.” He takes my hand and leads me through the swinging door, pulling me in for a brief kiss once we’re out of his family’s sight.

“I _always_ have to work on my birthday,” he says, pulling away slightly. “This is great.”

“I’m still working,” I remind him. As if to prove my point, the first customer of the morning enters the shop a moment later, looking for sourdough bread.

It’s a Wednesday, though, and business is slow. To pass the time I tell Peeta the story of how I got Prim her goat, Lady, and he recounts a few years’ worth of birthday mishaps, most involving a prank from Brody gone awry. Sometimes, when no one is around, he steals kisses, leaving me flushed and embarrassed that we’ll be caught.

After one kiss goes on a little too long, I push him away lightly, flashing him a stern look. “Working,” I remind him.

Peeta smiles but then looks down to where our hands are still entwined, growing more serious as he threads his fingers through mine. “Brody told me what he wanted to do for my birthday.”

“Oh.” Somewhere in the course of the day I’d completely forgotten that Peeta and I already had plans of sorts for the evening, though we’d never actually acknowledged them.

He squeezes my hand. “I told him it’s okay, we don’t need it. I figured you’d be tired after working all day, and then dinner, anyway.”

It’s a struggle to keep my face neutral as I mull over his words. I expect to feel relieved – and to an extent, I do. But I realize quickly that I’m also disappointed.

“No,” I say, before I can think it over too much. “We should. If – if he’s still willing.”

Peeta looks slightly stunned, a tiny crease between his eyebrows. “Oh. Yeah. I mean – yeah.”

“We don’t have to do anything,” I add quickly, more to reassure myself than him.

“No.” Peeta shakes his head. “Whatever you want.”

“But maybe,” I say, watching the way his Adam’s apple bobs at my words.

“Maybe,” he agrees.

We watch one another, his thumb running circles over my palm. The bell over the door jingles, breaking the silence. As I pull away to greet our customer, Peeta tightens his grip on my hand and presses the back of it to his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a little shorter than usual - it felt like a good stopping place based on everything that's going to happen next. Also, I went back and changed Peeta's birthday in chapter 21 to be November 9 instead of in September...at this point in the story we're definitely past mid-September!
> 
> Hope you enjoy, let me know what you think! :)


	34. thirty-four

Peeta disappears for a few hours in the afternoon, emerging from the kitchen with a pie in his hands precisely as I’m flipping the Closed sign over on the door. “What’s that?” I ask him.

“Well, I know you specifically said your apples were to be used for a tart, but I thought an apple pie with goat cheese was too perfect to pass up.”

As I draw closer I can smell the warm apples and cinnamon, the buttery crust, the slight, sharp tang of the cheese. “Oh, Peeta,” I breathe. “That looks amazing.”

His eyes crinkle up as he smiles. “Thanks. You about ready to go?”

I glance down at my outfit: an old sweater, jeans, my hunting boots. Nothing fancy. But if it’s good enough for Peeta, I suppose it’s good enough for his friends. “Just let me grab my coat.” He follows me back into the kitchen and then holds the door open for me to step outside, balancing the pie in his other hand.

Peeta takes my hand and holds it steadily as we head down the alleyway to the street. Though the streets are nearly empty, with just a few shopkeepers locking their doors and heading home, heat rises in my cheeks as I realize this is the first time we’ve shown even mild affection for one another in public. Peeta takes a left past the cobbler’s, leading me down a quiet street lined with tidy houses. They’re much larger than my home in the Seam; but even beyond that, the difference is startling.  These homes look sturdy and neat, not crumbling under years of coal dust and poverty.

We’re almost to the end of the lane before Peeta lets go of my hand to push open a small gate. “Here we are,” he says.

“Nice house,” I say, unable to hide my annoyance that a pair of teenagers lives in such a large space, while people like the Hawthornes are crammed three to a room in the Seam.

Peeta shoots me a look. “They didn’t choose it. The district assigned them to it.”

But he knows just as well as I do that if someone like me were to marry someone like Gale, we wouldn’t be assigned one of these houses. Even Peeta, if he were to marry a Merchant girl, would be lucky to be placed in a home like this one.

Peeta senses my hesitation, and he takes my hand again, tugging me gently after him. “They’re just people, Katniss,” he sighs.

Asher Finch opens the door after the third knock. “Hey, Peet,” he says, and the boys embrace in the kind of gruff, one-armed hug that I’ve seen Gale exchange with his fellow miners from time to time. “Hey, Katniss.” One side of his mouth lifts in a lazy smile and he steps back through the doorway. “Come on in.”

“Is that them?” A woman’s low, throaty voice carries from the back of the house as Peeta and I step inside, shrugging off our coats for Asher to hang on a rack by the door.

“Who else would it be?” Asher wonders, but Catrin ignores him as she walks towards us down the small hallway, wiping her hands on her apron. She’s tall and somewhat solid, though not exactly heavyset, with brown eyes and brown hair that falls loose past her shoulders. My mind finally places her, now that I have a face to pair with the name – she was one of the girls who always hung around with Violet Plumwell.

“Hi Peeta. Happy birthday,” she says, pulling him in for a quick hug. “Hi, Katniss,” she says to me, though she makes no move to embrace me. I consider for a moment whether I should feel slighted, but to be honest, I’m glad. There’s a very short list of people who I’m comfortable with touching me, and Catrin Finch isn’t on it.

“I made lentil soup and bread,” she tells us as we follow her and Asher back towards the kitchen. It’s lit by a dim lamp that hangs from the ceiling, and a few candles flicker around the room. A vibrant red tablecloth covers the wooden dining table, which is set for four.  There are two bottles of wine on the counter, both unopened, and a few pots simmering on the stove.

It’s warm, and homey. They’re clearly not struggling to put food on the table. And it feels disconcertingly _adult_ , for two people who just made it through their last Reaping in the summer.

After a few minutes of chatter Catrin serves us each a bowl of soup, which is good, and slices of bread, which are fine, but not as good as what Peeta and I make each day in the bakery. Asher pours the wine, and pauses just before touching the lip of the bottle to my glass. “Do you want wine, Katniss?”

For a second I think back to the last time I drank alcohol, at the toasting. I could certainly use some of that warm, loose, fuzzy feeling tonight. “Please,” I tell him.

And truth be told, the wine makes it easier. It becomes clear that Peeta hasn’t seen much of his friends over the past few months, but they grow increasingly relaxed as they reminisce over our last year of school. I don’t say much, just smile politely in what I hope are the right places. School was never much more than a distraction for me – the place I had to be between hunting and trading in the Hob and caring for Prim – but for Peeta, Asher and Catrin, it was the center of adolescent life.

“How do you like working at the bakery?” Catrin says. It takes me a moment to realize she’s talking to me.

I glance at Peeta. “I like it fine.”

Peeta smiles at me, placing his hand on my thigh and giving it a little squeeze. “She’s getting really good at making the bread,” he says. “You might put me out of a job.” I duck my head, glad that my face is already flushed from the wine. 

“You still hunt in the woods?” Catrin asks casually.

I freeze. It’s obviously not a secret that I hunt. But I never really thought that anyone outside of the Seam – plus a few people whom I traded with, like the Mellarks – took notice. It’s certainly not something I want to talk about now, with people I barely know, and don’t trust.

“Not much,” I say, and take a long sip of wine, intending to make it clear that I’m not interested in elaborating.

“That’s too bad. Peeta used to talk about how good the squirrels were that you brought.”

Peeta ducks his head a little, looking embarrassed, but the thought of him at the school lunch table, eating the meat I sold to his father, makes me smile.

We empty a second bottle of wine before dessert. Though we’re all a little flushed and giggly, Asher seems to take it the hardest, his voice steadily building to such a volume that Catrin constantly has to shush him.

“Peet!” Asher jumps up from his seat abruptly, almost knocking his empty bowl off the table.

“What!” Peeta replies, mimicking his tone with a laugh.

“I’m building a chair,” Asher says, eyes wide. “You have to come see it.”

The boys leave, and Catrin must sense my confusion, because she says, “He’s apprenticed to the carpenter.”

“Ah.”

Catrin starts to clear the table, and I stay in my seat, pretending to take a great interest in the pattern embroidered on the tablecloth. It’s quiet; I can just barely hear Asher explaining something to Peeta in another room, his voice muffled through the walls.

“You don’t talk very much, do you,” Catrin says.

I startle, looking up to where she stands by the oven, Peeta’s apple pie balanced in her hands. “I guess not,” I say.

Her face remains neutral as she moves to the table and sets the pie down between us. “It’s funny. Peeta’s so charming.” I grasp the implication – that I’m not – but she doesn’t say it unkindly.

Catrin picks up a clean knife from the countertop and sits across from me, slicing into the pie. “Do you think you’ll get married?”

The question catches me off-guard. “Get married?” I repeat. “To Peeta?”

She looks at me oddly. “Sounds like a no.”

“Peeta and I have only…really known each other a few months,” I say.

Catrin shrugs. “He’s been staring at you a lot longer than that.” She slips a piece of pie out from the pan, onto a small dish that she pushes towards me. “Violet thought they might get married. His last girlfriend. She’s one of my best friends. But I knew she was crazy.”

I look down at my piece of pie, picking at the pointed end with my fork. “Why was she crazy?”

“Because Peeta’s been watching you for as long as I’ve known him,” she says. “And he never watched her that way.”

My cheeks feel like they’ve caught on fire. I shove a piece of apple in my mouth, wishing desperately there was more wine to drink.

“You don’t have to get all weird about it,” she says, sounding amused. “I don’t hate you just because she’s my friend. Peeta seems really happy.”

I don’t know how to respond. “He’s a happy guy,” I say.

“But you don’t want to marry him.”

“I don’t want to marry anyone,” I say automatically, as I’ve said a thousand times before. Catrin lifts her brow in surprise, but doesn’t comment.

“Do you…do you like being married?” I ask before I can stop myself.

Catrin chews slowly, looking pensive. “I do,” she says finally. “It was very strange at first, moving in here. And Asher has some habits…well, I won’t gross you out. It’s an adjustment.” She lifts her gaze from her plate to meet my eyes. “It’s good, though. It’s good to have someone.” She shrugs, smirking a little. “Good to have sex whenever we want, too.”

“Oh. Ha, yeah,” I say, as if I can relate.

She tilts her head, studying me. “It must be so frustrating for you and Peeta. Doesn’t he still share a room with Brody?”

Thankfully, the boys return before I can answer.  “This pie is so good, Peeta,” Catrin says smoothly, like she wasn’t just trying to get some details on my and Peeta’s sex life.

He rests his hand on my shoulder, his thumb rubbing gently over the tense muscles just below my neck. “Thanks. Katniss made the cheese.”

“You make cheese?” Asher says, flopping down into his chair. “You’re like a one-woman grocery, Katniss Everdeen.”

I snort. “Once I steal all Peeta’s best recipes, I’ll be all set.”

“Oh, no,” Peeta laughs, pressing his nose into my hair. I can still smell a hint of wine on his breath, and I know that he’s still tipsy. It’s okay; so am I. But we still have the whole night ahead of us.

Peeta dishes out slices of pie for himself and Asher, but as he eats he keeps one warm hand on my thigh. Every now and then he flexes his fingers, squeezing gently, moving just slightly higher up my thigh each time. I squirm in my seat as he does it, and Catrin gives me a silent, knowing look from across the table, a slight smirk on her lips. _We need to get out of here_ , I decide.

Thankfully, Peeta and I seem to be on the same page. He downs his pie in record time and leans back in his chair with a contented sigh. “This was incredible, you guys,” he says sincerely. “Thank you so much for having us. I hate to do this, but my mom was kind of making a fuss about me missing family dinner on my birthday, so we,” he tilts his head in my direction, “should probably get going.”

At Peeta’s mention of his mother, there’s a glance between Asher and Catrin, and a flicker of understanding. I wonder how much they know about that part of Peeta’s life.

“We’re just glad you came over,” Catrin says. “We miss you.”

“I miss you, too,” Peeta says, and I can tell that this part, at least, is not a lie.

* * *

 

Peeta wraps his arms around my middle the moment the Finches’ door closes behind us, pulling me against his side. We stumble like that down their front walkway, slightly giddy, invigorated by the chilly bite of the night air.

“Peeta,” I laugh, pushing him away. “I can’t walk like that.”

“Sorry.” He pulls away slightly, content to keep just one arm around my waist instead of both. “So what did you and Catrin talk about?”

Nothing that I’m eager to repeat with Peeta. “Not much. She likes being married.”

Peeta laughs softly. “That’s good.”

We walk a few yards further, until Peeta abruptly stops. He pulls me in close again, so we’re standing face-to-face in the middle of the quiet, dark street. I shiver against him, dipping my cold-tipped nose beneath the thick scarf wrapped around my neck. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he says softly. “I just…I want to stay in this moment, for a little bit.” He’s quiet for a few seconds, then says, “Look up.”

I tilt my head back, and forget all about the cold. The sky is breathtaking, a velvety black littered with thousands of brilliant white stars. I suck in a sharp breath.

“Katniss.”

“Mm.” I keep my eyes trained on the sky. If I stay like this, I can almost pretend that we’re not in 12 anymore. That we’re somewhere boundless, free, beautiful. Somewhere safe.

“I love you,” Peeta says.

At first, the words don’t really penetrate the thick fog of wine and food and bright, blinding stars that’s wrapped around my mind. But the longer the silence stretches between us, the heavier it weighs. My tongue searches for something to say, clumsy and unsure.

Finding nothing, I reach up to cup his face between my cold fingers, and press a kiss to his lips. It’s a sweet, closed-mouth kiss, and through my coat I can feel his fingers pressing into me, always trying to reach me.

_Peeta loves me._ It’s wonderful and horrible all at the same time; it’s far too much for this moment, this night. So I let it dissipate, dissolve into my bloodstream, where it will hum just beneath the surface of my skin until I’m ready to piece it together again.

“Let’s go home,” I whisper.

* * *

 

Peeta warns me to be quiet as we climb the steps up the side of the bakery to the front door of the apartment above. I roll my eyes, but my lips curve into a small smile. “I’m quieter than you,” I tell him. He shushes me and opens the door.

Brody wasn’t exaggerating about their parents’ early bedtime: it’s just past nine o’clock, and there’s no sign of life anywhere in the apartment. In the darkness I can only just make out the forms of basic objects: a sofa, a small table, a television. This must be the sitting room.

Peeta leads me down the hallway, all the way to the end, and slowly pushes open a door, beckoning me through. He shuts it carefully behind us, and flicks on a small, dim lamp that sits on a desk. “So…this is my room.”

The first thing I notice is that it’s small. Just as small as the room I share with Prim, in fact, but with two beds crammed into it instead of one.

The second thing I notice is that despite the limited space, it’s very neat. Both beds are made up, and the floor is clear of clothes or other debris. Based on what I’ve seen of Gale’s bedroom, it’s not what I expected from a couple of boys barely out of their teens.

The third thing I notice is the flowers.

At first I’m baffled. Nothing this colorful is still growing by mid-November, especially after we’ve already had the first frost. But here they are: pink and orange and yellow and purple, arranged on the pillows of what I assume is Peeta’s bed. Did he buy them all from the florist in town? It must have cost a fortune.

Just as I’m about to admonish him for spending so much money on something so silly just to impress me, it strikes me: the flowers aren’t real. I reach out and touch one gently, and the petal cracks beneath my fingertip. They’re the flowers that Peeta makes for his cakes.

“Careful,” he says, catching my hand. “I didn’t really think about how hard these would be to clean up.”

I look up at him, eyes wide. “Did you make all these?” There must be dozens, each one a perfect replica of the others.

He smiles shyly. “Yeah.” Peeta leans over and scoops one of the flowers up, cupping it in his palm. “They’re not sugary like the ones I usually do, so don’t try to eat them.”

“What are they?”

“Just this flour-paste stuff I came up with,” he says with a shrug. “We shouldn’t leave them there, though. Help me move them?”

I do, careful not to crack any more as we transfer them from the bed to his desk. “These are beautiful, Peeta,” I say sincerely, gently setting down the last blossom. “When did you have time to do this?”

“Mostly last night,” he says. “But I brought them up here today. It doesn’t take three hours to make an apple pie, you know.” He grins, and flops down onto his back on the bed, watching me. After a moment I sit beside him, our knees brushing together.

Peeta reaches out and runs his hand down the length of my braid, pulling it over my shoulder. “Do you ever wear your hair down?” he asks.

I tuck my chin against my shoulder, looking down at him. “Sometimes, at home. Why?”

“Just trying to picture it.” He tugs a little at the end of my braid. “Can I?”

I nod, and he pulls the hair tie loose from the end, using both hands to unwind my thick hair from its plait, running his fingers through it. He stares up at me for a moment, then in one swift movement, sits upright and kisses me.

It takes me by surprise, though it shouldn’t. I jerk back slightly, but Peeta’s hand is there at the small of my back to steady me. The fingers of his other hand tangle through my hair to cup the back of my head. _This is what we came here for_ , I remind myself, willing my body to relax.

Peeta must sense my moment of hesitance, though, and he breaks the kiss, brushing his nose over my cheek. “You okay?”

I nod. “We don’t have to do anything,” he says softly. “Just because it’s my birthday, or whatever…I don’t care.”

I pull back slightly to stare at him. “You think I’m here because it’s your _birthday_?”

Peeta turns bright red, all the way to the tips of his ears. “No! That’s not…that came out wrong. I just, I know how Brody can be, and if he – he said something to you, like, made you feel pressured…”

“Brody didn’t pressure me,” I tell him. “He asked if I wanted this and I said yes.”

Peeta’s fingers fall to the comforter as he buries his face against my shoulder. “I’m an asshole,” he mutters, voice muffled.

“No,” I say gently, running the tips of my fingers down his back. Something I hadn’t thought of before occurs to me. “You’re just…nervous?”

He lifts his head to meet my eyes. “Yeah. A little,” he admits.

I don’t understand. “I thought you’ve done this before.”

“Not with you,” he says, and in those three simple words I know that no matter what I end up doing here tonight, as long as it’s with Peeta, it won’t be a mistake.

“Are you? Nervous?” he asks.

I shrug. “The wine helps,” I say, and he laughs, his fingers finding my waist again. 

“I want you to feel good,” he says, his voice soft and low as he leans in to nuzzle at my pulse point. “That’s all I care about.”

And he proves it: kissing me hard on the mouth, then in a warm, wet trail down my neck to my collarbone. He peels off his sweater first, then mine. He lays me back on the bed and lowers his head to my breasts, opening his mouth around me. His tongue slides over the thin fabric of my bra, catching on my nipple, and I arch up into him, the heat somehow too much and not enough all at once.

We move together, sighing, groaning, gasping. Every new touch brings me back into the moment with a vibrant, shaky intensity, only to soften into a hazy mélange of moans and lips and hands as we tangle together. Eventually Peeta lays between my legs, hovering over me, our hips bumping together in an unsteady rhythm. I shiver when his teeth graze at my breast. “Maybe we should get under the covers,” he says.

“Okay.” I start to shift back on the bed, pulling down the comforter, but I stop as Peeta stands up off the bed. He keeps his eyes on me as he unbuttons his pants, pulling them down, stepping out of them on the ground. My face flushes as I take him in. He’s left only in his underwear, the way he was in the kitchen last week, but this time the bulge is _much_ bigger.

Peeta crawls back over me, his mouth contorted like he’s holding back a grin. “Can we take these off?” he asks, his fingers trailing around the waistband of my jeans. I nod wordlessly, and lift my hips so he can tug them off of me, one foot slipping free after the other.

Peeta just sits for a moment by my feet, his eyes raking over my form. All that’s left to cover me is my plain, faded blue underwear. “You’re stunning,” he says finally, stretching out to lay beside me, his head propped up on one hand. He palms my breast with the other, then slides his hand down my stomach and finally stops between my legs, cupping me. “You’ve stunned me.”

It’s too ridiculous. I burst out laughing, and he grins, then starts to _move_ his fingers against me. My laugh quickly becomes a moan, and he presses his fingers against me harder, swallowing my noises with a kiss.

“Shh,” he whispers into my mouth, laughing a little. “We still have to be quiet.”

All I can do is nod. He watches my face as he moves his fingers experimentally, first back and forth, then in little circles. Eventually he works his way underneath my underwear, and I jump as he touches my bare skin there for the first time.

“God,” he breathes, his jaw going slack. “Katniss, you’re so _wet_.”

Something about the way Peeta says it sends a jolt of desire straight through me. Any thoughts of being embarrassed or self-conscious or unsure – they’re gone, at least for the moment. I grind up against his hand, desperate for more. “Off,” I whisper, hoping he’ll understand.

I don’t have to tell him twice. Peeta drags my underwear down my thighs and over my knees, and I kick them off with one foot, not caring where they land. His fingers find my clit again and I whimper, squeezing my eyes shut, twisting my fingers into the sheets beneath me.

“Have you ever made yourself come?” Peeta’s voice is low, right in my ear, making me jump.

“No,” I say, biting down hard on my lip as he slides one finger inside of me. It feels slightly uncomfortable, but I spread my legs a little wider as he pumps in and out of me slowly.

“Do you want to?”

“I want – I want you to make me,” I say.

Peeta makes a strangled noise, somewhere deep in his throat, and starts to rub my clit faster. I dig my fingers into his back, desperate for something to keep me tethered to the earth as the pleasure hits me in waves, each more intense than the last. He presses wet, warm kisses to my jaw, my cheek, my neck; I think he’s whispering something to me, something low and sweet, but my mind can’t process the words.

Then his head dips to my breasts; he closes his lips around one nipple, his fingers tugging on the other, and for one brief, indescribable moment, it all peaks. I have just enough presence of mind to turn my head and bury my moans in the pillow as my whole body trembles around him, shaking, sparking. I pant against the fabric, suddenly dizzy.

I feel Peeta’s fingers slip out of me, and then they’re sliding through my hair, brushing against my neck just before his lips do. “How was that?” he whispers.

I crack one eye open to look at him, my limbs too heavy to move. “Are you serious?”

Peeta just grins, and then cups my jaw as he presses his lips to mine. He rests his head next to mine on the pillow, gazing into my eyes, and slowly strokes his hand over my hair and down my arm. “I’ve thought about doing that for years,” he admits.

“I would’ve gone insane if I thought about doing that for years,” I say, and he laughs.

“Are you done?” he asks. “Or do you want to keep going?”

At first I’m not quite sure what he means, feeling drugged and tongue-tied as I come down from the orgasm. But as I move my hand down to scratch at a spot on my thigh, I bump against his erection, still straining impossibly hard against his undershorts. He swallows hard at the brief contact, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, his eyes hopeful.

I brush the tip of my nose against his lightly. “Keep going.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you, thank you, thank you for all the kudos and comments and bookmarks. i really hope you enjoy this chapter...and there's more to come in the next chapter. definitely let me know what you think. there's been so much buildup to this part of the story, i really hope it lives up to whatever you were hoping for! ;)


	35. thirty-five

“Keep going.”

Peeta’s smile would blind me if we weren’t in the dark. “Okay.” He shifts over me again, kissing me, one hand sliding down to cup my breast. I sigh in appreciation.

“You smell so good,” Peeta murmurs, angling his head to trail kisses down my neck. I shiver slightly as he licks and sucks at my skin. Though it’s much less urgent now, there’s still a warm, curious stirring between my legs, and I pull my knees up, trapping Peeta’s body between them.

He flashes me a look of surprise, then a smirk. “You want me?” he teases in a low voice.

It’s absurd to feel embarrassed at this point – naked and panting in bed with Peeta, his fingers dancing lower every second – but I feel the flush spread through my chest nonetheless. “Just…” I trail off, narrowing my eyes, unsure what to tell him. _Keep going._

“It’s okay,” Peeta says, sounding amused. “I want you, too.” He sits back on his knees, his body nestled between my own, and reaches down to pull off his underwear.

My gaze can’t help but be drawn straight to his penis. It’s large. Alarmingly so – not that I have much to compare it to. But I’m not quite sure how it’s going to fit inside me, when just his _fingers_ felt like a stretch.

My discomfort must be obvious, because Peeta’s expression softens and he lays back down beside me, resting his hand over my hip.

“Just tell me if you don’t want to do something,” he says.

“It’s not that,” I say after a slight pause. “I’m just…not sure how this is going to work.”

Peeta stares at me for a moment. “Like…sex?” He frowns a little. “You don’t know-”

“I know how sex works,” I snap, growing frustrated – mostly by my own inability to stay calm when faced with an erection. “I’m just not sure…I don’t know how it’s going to fit.”

Peeta’s face lights up with understanding. He chuckles softly. “It’ll fit. I promise.” He leans in to kiss me but I turn my head away, and his lips only find my cheek.

“Don’t laugh at me.”

“Oh, Katniss,” he says, and his voice is so sincere that it’s impossible not to look back at him. “I’m not laughing at you, I swear.” He squeezes gently at my hip. “I kind of just…can’t believe this is real.”

I study him. His hair is tousled from my fingers, his face flushed with arousal. Even now, he’s the same Peeta I’ve always seen, eyes soft with kindness. _And love._ I push away the thought as quickly as it skitters through my mind.

One corner of his mouth lifts apologetically, and I can’t stop myself from mirroring the smile. It’s almost unnerving, how quickly he can put me at ease. “Well, it’s real,” I tell him.

This time, when Peeta leans in for a soft, sweet kiss, I let him. When he rolls closer, his tongue edging into my mouth, I feel his length pressing into my thigh, insistent. Before I can think about it too much, I reach down and brush my fingers over the head of his cock. Peeta hums into my mouth. Never breaking the kiss, he finds my hand with his own and guides my fingers around him.

His skin is surprisingly soft – and hot. Peeta’s lips go slack against mine when I squeeze him gently in my hand, and he makes a guttural noise deep in his throat. I loosen my fingers abruptly, afraid I’ve hurt him.

“No,” he whispers, fitting his hand over mine again. “It feels good.” He moves our hands up and down together, pumping him, until I settle into a rhythm on my own.

Peeta seems to enjoy it immensely, pressing his forehead against mine, his eyes tightly shut. But after a minute or two, I grow restless, eager to feel him in other ways. “Peeta,” I murmur. I press in closer to him, slipping my leg between his. I’m not exactly sure what I’m asking him for, but I hope he’ll help me figure it out.

He responds by thrusting up into my hand just as his hand comes up to frame my face, pulling me in for a fierce kiss. “Fuck, Katniss,” he groans, sucking my bottom lip into his mouth. “I want…can we…”

He pushes his hips into mine again, and a shudder runs through me when he brushes against my clit, taking me by surprise. I’m still incredibly sensitive. The shock only lasts a moment, though, fading into a dull, throbbing ache that’s somehow even stronger. Some deep, animal part of my brain understands what I need now. I need him inside me.

I shift my hips so he’s pressed up right against my entrance, and Peeta grinds back against me, his chest grazing the tips of my breasts. “Do you…”

“Yeah,” I breathe, digging my fingers into his shoulders. I’m not even sure what he was about to ask; I just know the answer is _yes._

“Wait,” he says, stilling the movement of my hips with his hands. “Just…a second…” I watch in confusion as he climbs off of the bed and crouches down on the floor beside his desk, pulling open the bottom drawer.

When he springs back up, it’s with a little foil square in his hands. Of course – a condom. I’m slightly horrified that protection hadn’t even occurred to me until this moment, but there’s no point in dwelling on it, as Peeta crawls back onto the bed. He kneels between my legs as he tears the packet open.

“Can’t…forget…this,” he says quietly, eyes turned down as he rolls the condom over his cock with one hand, the other pinching the tip. It’s clearly something he’s done before.

Peeta lets out a deep breath and lifts his gaze to meet my eyes. He moves forward, leaning back over me, his hips coming down to rest against mine again. I tilt my chin up to meet his kiss, trying to focus on the feel of his lips, and not the nerves suddenly prickling under my skin. _This is real. This is happening._

The kiss is long and agonizingly slow, and when he sucks my tongue into his mouth the ache at my center becomes almost unbearable. Eventually Peeta pulls back, and kisses me on the cheek. “You ready?” he asks softly.

“Ready,” I whisper. But I realize, as he takes his cock in his hand and positions himself at my center, that my body is sending a different message. Where before I was loose and relaxed, melting under his touch, I’m suddenly tense and stiff.

Peeta realizes it, too. He moves his hands up to my breasts instead, squeezing my nipples gently, and runs his tongue over the peaked skin. I whimper a little, but it doesn’t feel quite as good as it did before. I’m overthinking it.

“It’s okay if you’re not,” Peeta says in a low, soothing tone. He kisses the spot between my breasts, then moves his mouth down my torso, sucking at the soft skin just below my bellybutton. “We should be…” My toes curl as his teeth graze over my hipbone. “…Honest with each other.”

“I’m ready, I just…” I suck in a sharp breath as his mouth keeps moving, even _lower_ , and he flicks his tongue against my clit. My hips buck up against him, completely out of my control. “Peeta,” I say, surprised by how much it sounds like a whine.

He draws another moan out of me as he drags his tongue over my folds, but before the pleasure can really build he pulls himself back up over me, pressing his lips together as he studies my face. “It might hurt,” he finally says. “But I’ll go slow. And it’ll feel better if you relax.”

“I’m trying,” I insist, but that’s part of the problem. I shouldn’t have to _try_.

Peeta shifts off of me to lay by my side. His palm trails over my ribcage, leaving goosebumps in its wake, and when I turn to meet his eyes, they’re lost in thought. Finally he says, “Close your eyes.”

I raise an eyebrow, skeptical.

“Seriously,” he half-laughs. “Close your eyes.”

So I do it.

I breathe in deeply, expecting him to keep talking. Instead I feel the mattress dip for a moment, and then Peeta’s lips brush against mine softly, a whisper of a kiss.

“Don’t think,” I hear his voice low in my ear. “Just feel.”

He kisses a trail down my jaw to my neck, one hand gently kneading my breast as his lips ghost over my skin. I lay still, my eyes shut, and empty my mind of thought.

Peeta maps my body with his lips and his hands. He’s slow, serious, steady, thorough. He litters kisses across my collarbone, my breasts, my thighs, taking his time, tasting every part of me. His hands follow the path forged by his mouth, his fingers flexing around my calves, sliding over my hipbones. Against my skin he murmurs soft words, sweet words, things I can’t quite make out. When I feel his warm breath against my center again, I press my face into the pillow, hoping it will drown out the sounds I can’t stop from escaping.

By the time he’s done, my limbs have turned to jelly. My eyes still shut, I feel the mattress dip again as he moves back up the bed. He captures my lips in a kiss, and at the same time I feel his cock resting against me again, right at the spot where I want him most.

“Open your eyes,” he whispers against my mouth. I blink them open, and find his face just an inch or two from mine. His lips curve up in a lopsided smile, and he kisses me again, gentle but brief. “Are you ready?”

The word catches in my throat. “Yes.”

We keep our eyes locked on one another as he pushes into me slowly. Peeta bites his bottom lip, his nostrils flaring slightly, but he never even blinks. I lift my hands and rest them loosely on his back, just below his shoulder blades, and I can feel his muscles twitching beneath my fingertips.

At first, it just feels odd – a stretching feeling, like his fingers had felt inside me, but more so. Suddenly, though – when he’s about halfway in – the stretching edges into pain. I can’t stop the sound of hurt that rises up from my throat.

Peeta stops moving, his brow furrowed in concern. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I say, though I know my face must suggest otherwise. “Peeta. Don’t stop.”

“Okay.” But as he starts to push into me again, he kisses me fiercely, his tongue demanding entrance to my mouth. I recognize it for what it is – a distraction – and I’m grateful. I kiss him back, desperate to keep my focus on the feel of his lips and his tongue, and not the painful stretch growing deep within me. When it becomes almost too much to bear, I bite down hard on his lip, and he groans, one hand coming up to roughly squeeze my breast.

I’m so caught up in the kiss that it barely registers when his hips fall still against me. Peeta breaks the kiss, breathing heavily, and as I catch my breath I realize: _he’s all the way inside me._ Though it still hurts, the thought sends a strange thrill through me.

He seems to come to the realization just as I do, and his features slacken into a look I can only describe as pure desperation before he drops his forehead to the pillow beside me. “Fuck,” he mutters, eyes squeezed shut.

My legs lock around him in place, and I frown. “What?” I can’t hide the worry in my voice.

“Oh.” His eyes blink open. “No, no, no. It was a good ‘fuck,’” he says, lifting his head to kiss me, and he laughs against my mouth. “That’s not really what I meant either.”

Our moment of levity lasts only a moment – his hips shift, pushing him a little deeper into me, and a fresh wave of pain hits me. I flinch. “Ow.”

Peeta’s eyes soften with concern, and he holds himself still, only moving to give me a light kiss on the lips. “Try to relax,” he says quietly, brushing my cheek with his fingertips. “This is supposed to be fun, right?”

“Yeah, I know.” My voice sounds very small. “It hurts, though.”

He breathes heavily through his nose and presses a long kiss to my forehead. “I know. I’m sorry.”

Peeta readjusts himself on his arms, trying not to press deeper inside of me, and then lowers his mouth to my ear. “Is it okay if I try moving?” he says quietly.

I consider it. Yes, it will probably hurt – but there doesn’t seem to be a point to just laying here like we’re both too scared to move. Now that I’ve had more time to adjust, this doesn’t even feel so bad compared to some of the other things I’ve endured – a sprained ankle, a split lip, a skinned knee. “Go ahead,” I tell him.

Slowly, Peeta pulls out of me, nearly to the tip, and then pushes back in. I suck in a deep breath as he fills me again. There’s still a definite lingering soreness, but the pain is duller this time, and much more bearable.

“That’s – better,” I breathe softly.

My fingers dig into his back as Peeta rolls his hips against me, sliding in and out in a steady, slow rhythm. A quiet gasp escapes me as he moves in deeper, and he kisses me, a little sloppier this time. “Fuck, Katniss,” he says again, his eyes slightly unfocused.

I’m not sure what I should be doing – if I should be doing anything at all, really – but I pull my knees up, squeezing his body a little more tightly with my legs. Peeta groans against my neck. “You feel so good,” he mumbles, and adjusts his movements so he’s grinding up against me as he thrusts, instead of moving in and out. It feels better this way, letting me grow used to the feel of him for longer.

“You feel good too,” I tell him, but I know as soon as I say it that I don’t sound very convincing. Peeta just laughs a little, nuzzling his nose against my cheek.

“You don’t have to say that,” he says. “I promise it’ll get better. _So_ much better.”

At his words, a rush of affection washes through me, and I wrap my arms all the way around his back, holding him against me tightly. I’d never really thought about what this would be like. I wasn’t sure I’d ever experience sex, to be completely honest. But at this moment, I’m so _happy_ that the person I’m doing this with is Peeta.

Peeta takes my sudden embrace as a signal to move a bit faster, and his hips begin to rock into me more firmly. It still isn’t a feeling that I’d call _good_ , necessarily, but the pain is mostly gone, and when he brings one hand up to touch my breast my mouth falls open in a gasp. The sound seems to affect him, and his hips jerk against me a little quicker, losing their steady pace. “I’m gonna come soon,” he says through gritted teeth, and his fingers pinch my nipple as if to emphasize the point.

I don’t know if that means I should do something differently, but I run my hands up and down the slick skin of his back as he thrusts into me, harder now. After a few moments he tenses over me, making a low, strangled noise in his throat that I’ve never heard before, and then lets himself fall, his weight pressing me down into the mattress. I’m surprised by how nice it feels.

Just as I start to lose my breath, he rolls off of me and lays on his back for a moment, breathing in deeply. Then he turns his head and meets my eyes. “You okay?”

I nod. “I’m okay.”

Peeta moves onto his side and slips one arm over my waist, his fingers brushing gently over my skin. He starts to speak, then stops himself, his face turning slightly pink. “Let me…just…” He pulls away and slips the condom off, tying it off at the end, then leans over me to drop it into the trashcan beside the bed.

As he lays back down to face me, he props his head up on one arm. I only meet his eyes for a moment before I have to look away. I’m at a loss for words. What do you say to someone after doing…this? Once he’s seen you bare and vulnerable, touched every part of you…been inside of you?

_I love you?_ Is that what he wants me to say?

Is it what _I_ want to say?

The touch of his fingers against my cheek draws me back out of my thoughts. Peeta gives me a small smile. “You look like you’re thinking way too hard,” he jokes, but I can sense the nervous undertone in his voice.

I return his smile, but still no words will come.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, running his fingers through my hair, catching on a few tangles.

I mull over the question for a moment. “A little sore,” I say honestly. “But good.” As I say it, I know it’s the truth. I do feel good, laying here in bed beside Peeta. Warm, comfortable, safe. Happy.

Peeta’s smile grows wider. “I feel _really_ good,” he says, his voice low, like it’s a confession meant only for me. Maybe it is.

We lay there just looking at one another for a long moment. Without warning, Peeta edges in closer, wrapping his arms all the way around me. Before I know what’s happened he’s on his back again, and I’m splayed over his chest, my breasts pressed up against him, our legs tangled together.

When I shoot him a questioning look, he only shrugs. “I wanted to hug you.” The smile that stretches across my face is so wide I have to bite down on my lip to control it.

“You could’ve just asked,” I say, but I don’t make any move to get away. To the contrary: I stretch my body over his and drop a kiss on his lips, then let my head fall to rest on his chest, the soft thud of his heartbeat right beneath my ear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg finally *collapses*
> 
> thank you thank you for all your lovely reviews! :) this is certainly not the sexiest sex ever written - I wanted it to feel kind of fumbling and awkward and nervous, since that's been their entire relationship in this fic - but I hope you liked it and it felt satisfying, and *them*, after so much build up.
> 
> I would love to know your thoughts!! also feel free to join the fun on tumblr - I'm imloveleee!

**Author's Note:**

> So, the last time I wrote a multi-chapter fic was probably over a decade ago when I was around 13 and lost interest after a couple chapters. My attention span is SLIGHTLY better nowadays, so I don't think I'll have that problem again! Nonetheless, writing anything other than a one-shot is still pretty new for me, and I really hope you enjoy/want to read more.
> 
> I'm also rating it M because I intend to have that kind of content somewhere down the line, but that won't pop up for a while, I think.


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